


A Matter of Honour

by nire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Rich Tarth/Poor Lannisters, Swordfighting, but more like Marriage of Inconvenient Honour, here’s 20 times that, the minimum for this exchange is 1k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25758400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nire/pseuds/nire
Summary: Lady Brienne of Tarth was not pretty, but shewasrich. Numerous suitors had failed to meet her condition for marriage, but the latest—and possibly the worst of them—might win her hand after all.Written for the Jaime/Brienne Fic Exchange 2020
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 175
Kudos: 523
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2020





	1. The Suitor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VanVan_Jake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanVan_Jake/gifts).



> Written for VanVan_Jake. This fic fills two of the three prompts they submitted: “flipped” and “something borrowed”. The first prompt I interpreted as the flipped social standing and wealth of Brienne’s and Jaime’s houses, while the second… well, you’ll see.
> 
> My thanks to my betas, without whom this fic would never exist. I would have quit midway and tried something more manageable. But nooo, they had to encourage this madness.
> 
> It’s kind of more than the 1000-word minimum, but I hope you like it, VanVan_Jake!

When Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon mounted a rebellion, Selwyn Tarth, Evenstar, marched with his liege. Robert sent his most trusted friend Ned to rescue the Lady Stark to Dorne, and Selwyn, desperate to win the favour of house Baratheon, inserted himself into Ned Stark’s company.

Lord Selwyn was a strong fighter and an exceptional sailor, and it was he who suggested taking a boat to Dorne. And so they did. East from Storm’s End, through Shipbreaker’s Bay and then south past Cape Wrath and Estermont, around Rainwood and southwest until they made port in Wyl. They took horses then, quick light-footed ones that did well on mountains, as they trailed the riverside and then up the Red Mountains until they arrived at the Tower of Joy.

The sea winds, seemingly thrall to the Evenstar, quickened their travels by near a sennight, and the Dornish guide they picked at Wyl showed them a quick route up the mountains, and as such, they arrived at the Tower of Joy to see Lady Lyanna lying in a bed of silk, not blood, and when four days later she delivered the babe, they had had enough time to call for a midwife to tend to her.

The babe died, or so the records said, but Lyanna Stark lived.

For years to come, the minstrels would sing of the Evenstar crossing blades with the Sword of the Dawn, rescuing the lady who was to be queen, and coming home with the favour of the new king.

That favour built Tarth’s small port, turned the island into a rich trading hub, and made the marble cut from its mines fashionable once more. Tarth flourished, gleaming like a jewel in a sea of sapphires.

And to the west, Lannisport suffered as it failed to gain the favour of the crown, their gold becoming less and less valuable in the face of Highgarden’s crops and Tarth’s traded goods.

* * *

Brienne of Tarth was bedecked in a fine silk gown, with the sleeves cut loose until it gathered at her wrists so she could move easily, the skirts wide and light, a gold and silver belt of suns and moons around her waist. Her hair was braided and arranged just so, and if not for her face, she would be almost pretty.

She was not pretty.

But she _was_ rich, dressed in the best gown coin could buy, attended by maids who had flocked to Evenfall Hall to serve her. They’d all heard of her numerous betrothals; they all held a wish in their heart to catch the eye of these men and the men in their retinue.

Not that they succeeded with the lords. Rich as Tarth was, with its trading port and exotic goods from Essos, its marble mines and marbled floors, the men who came to wed Brienne of Tarth could not afford lowborn brides. Why else would they vie for the hand of a second child, one uglier than the sea creatures sold at the fish market?

But the maids did not give up. Lords they might not catch, but they brought their aides, companions, men of lesser houses. They came with a ship or a carriage, and those needed men to run. Smallfolk, yes, but in the service of a lord, possessing some sort of trade to sell.

Brienne had seen her maids come and go within months, leaving to be the bride of a ship captain or a guard, following Brienne’s spurned suitors back where they came from. A younger maid would soon take the empty station, another fresh-faced girl with big dreams. It would not be long before this girl left, too.

And still, Brienne was unwed.

Today welcomed another suitor. The maids were all very excited, as it was said that this man was the most beautiful man in all of Westeros, but Brienne only felt knots in her belly.

She looked at one of her maids. “Would you fetch me some wine?”

The maid looked at her strangely, as Brienne never asked for wine, but did as she was bid. Brienne took a bracing gulp, the warmth seeping through her, blossoming on her cheeks. Her damnable face blushed all too easily, but she hoped the man would think it was nerves and not drunkenness.

There was a knock. Her septa, Roelle, walked in. The woman had not adjusted well to the house’s new fortune, but she stayed nonetheless, though scornful of Brienne and the maids fluttering around her.

“Your father is waiting in the western parlour.”

“Not the main hall?” Brienne asked, astonished.

“Jaime Lannister found it unsuitable,” the septa said before she turned on her feet, expecting Brienne to follow.

She did.

* * *

When Brienne arrived at the parlour, Jaime Lannister was playing cyvasse with her father—and losing, it seemed to Brienne. They were very absorbed in the game, Selwyn grinning almost youthfully, Lannister bemoaning his opponent’s clever moves; neither noticed that Brienne was there until she cleared her throat.

Septa Roelle shot her a sharp look. Brienne ignored her. She could not stand it anymore, and besides, it did the trick. Lannister shot up from his seat like an arrow, then bowed deeply and solicitously to Brienne.

“My Lady, forgive me,” he said, his grin pearly white, his verdant eyes twinkling. “Or rather, forgive your father, for he was altogether too good at this game.”

“Ser Jaime,” she said, and she nearly succeeded at not twisting her lips at his title. Why was he still a knight? Could King Robert not strip him of that, too, with the white cloak of a Kingsguard? “How was your journey?”

“Swift. And a pleasant change from the hustle and bustle of Lannisport, though Tarth is no less lively.” His smile was unwavering, his eyes meeting hers without hesitation—but also without straying. As though he was very carefully holding his gaze from offending.

All of this was familiar. Brienne had met suitors who attempted to cow her with force and the useless fact that they were men, but all of that had changed when Father came home with the King’s favour. No, since then, they had shifted their tact, for Tarth had become an even bigger prize in their eyes, one they scarcely could afford to lose.

Brienne knew of House Lannister. Once teetering so close to the throne, now scorned and abandoned. Not quite disgraced, though many whispered of the way Lord Tywin held his bannermen from marching the city until victory was assured, and many more talked of how Ser Jaime had killed the Mad King, betraying his vow and losing his white cloak as a too-light punishment. They lived lavishly still, as though unable to lose their pride as their wealth and influence left them, living off heavy taxes levied from their bannermen and common folk.

They were the laughing stock of the Lords Paramount.

Father had related this to Brienne—or rather, to her brother while she listened—and so it was clear why Ser Jaime, handsome and capable of obtaining a bride from any house in the Westerlands, had come across the land to court her.

She had heard he was an irreverent, arrogant man, saved only by his beauty and his sword hand, and yet he was now all solicitousness and sweet lies. She loathed him for it, but it had been a while since her last suitor and even longer since it was a good swordsman. So, she merely nodded at him, politely, while keeping all the warmth in her for worthier people.

“I’m glad,” she said, curtly, and that put a stop to their pleasantry. From the way the corners of his eyes smoothed out, the smile gone from them, she could tell that he understood as much. So, she continued. “Ser Jaime, I would not wish to waste your precious time. I hope you know that I have set a condition for my betrothal.”

He smiled. It was polite. Condescending. “You’ve made a name for yourself with that condition, my lady.”

This was a jab, though he said it kindly enough that it could almost pass as flattery. Brienne would smile if she didn’t know that it would only be a grimace at best, a beast baring its fangs at worst—and Septa Roelle had said so many times that she should strive to be less of a beast. She shook her head instead. “I do not care for fame, my lord, only respect. Will you allow me to test your blade, then?”

“If I refuse, my entire journey would be a waste of my time—and we agreed that we do not want that, do we?”

“No.”

“Well, then.” He nodded to his squire. “Fetch my sword.”

“Right now?” Selwyn asked, and only then did Brienne remember that her father was there in the room with them. “Would you not prefer to rest first, ser?”

“If my lady would consider holding the match later than sooner, I would not object,” Ser Jaime said, still all kindness.

Brienne felt her blood boil from the challenge. Her father was looking at her beseechingly. Father would hope that Lannister won, but Lannister would have better odds rested. Yet she could not stand him and his falseness any longer, and if he chose to disadvantage himself, she did not see any reason to dissuade him.

Brienne nodded. “Better we get it out of the way,” she said. “Father, if you would take Ser Jaime to the courtyard while I change?”

Selwyn Tarth looked torn once more between indulging his daughter or doing his best to make real what he perceived to be her own good. But as it had happened many times before, it happened once more: he lowered his eyes, defeated, and extended one arm to the door.

Brienne let them leave first, for her legs felt leaden. Something in her lurched, unbalanced, seasickness before a storm, but she had come so far, winning against all those who had tried to make her submit.

This was just one more man. One more road-weary man for her to knock to the dirt and send sailing home.

She looked up to the door and saw that Ser Jaime had lingered, watching her with an odd sort of look until he caught her gaze and his face contorted into a mask of concern. “Are you well, my lady?”

If she was to be honest, she had felt ill since she’d had word of his arrival—but she shook her head and said, “I will see you in the courtyard, my lord.”

He cocked a smile at her and left.

She fell onto a chair. _My lord._ The honorific left the taste of ash on her tongue, and she realised that should she lose, she would taste ash until the end of her days, for then he would indeed be her lord husband.

* * *

Brienne changed in her own quarters briskly, so close to being in a hurry—if she took her time, she would only be more terrified, but she was still too careful for any sort of real rush to her movements. She had tried not to appraise Ser Jaime—he was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at him, but even more so, she would have perhaps jumped into the open sea and swum to Braavos had he caught her admiring his figure.

But when he had walked out of the parlour, she watched; she had to, as Ser Goodwin had trained her to. _Pay attention to your opponent,_ as he always said. _Watch their size, their reach, their gait, their speed. Watch if their eyes are slower when you move to their right or their left._

That last one, Brienne hadn’t had a chance to gauge, but the rest she gathered easily enough. Ser Jaime had a sort of economy to his movements, with a grace lent only to hunter animals. He was tall—about the same height as she was, perhaps, or a little shorter—and he was narrower than she was, which meant that he would be harder to hit. All of her observations marked him as not only skilled but trained. Tested.

She supposed he’d fought other men than the mad old man he had vowed to guard.

She finished changing into simple breeches and doublet, a boiled leather chestplate over it and gloves over her hands. They were all plain, unadorned, but made to fit. She went through all the exercises needed to warm herself up and test the flexibility of her limbs, and then she walked to the courtyard, hoping futilely that few had come to spectate on what would be the most interesting bout of the year.

And of course, the courtyard was packed, the alcoves around filled by courtiers and guests and workers who had abandoned their duties. She wanted to scold them, but she could not. Had she been a scullery maid or a stableboy, she too would risk a rebuke to watch this bout.

Septa Roelle was nowhere to be seen, but Brienne was sure the crone was watching from somewhere, scornfully. She never understood why the woman hated her so much. She knew one thing, however: it was truly hatred that the septa harboured towards her, rather than a misplaced, misguided sense of duty to raise Brienne into a proper lady. She remembered the little switch of reed Septa Roelle had favoured so much. It was only when Father had asked Ser Goodwin why Brienne’s palms had often been so red that she had stopped using it to punish Brienne.

Septa Roelle didn’t need a switch to hurt, but her words meant little in the face of Galladon’s love, or the maids’ flattery, or Ser Goodwin’s approval. Brienne was grateful for that, at least. Out of pity to the mean little woman, she never told anyone of how awful Septa Roelle had always been to her, even now.

Brienne wondered if the septa would be pleased by Ser Jaime’s victories, or if she would find Brienne unworthy of such a man. She had always had a low opinion of men, but surely a Kingslayer ranked even lower in her eyes?

Brienne shook her head again, willing herself to focus. When she felt her hair staying in place, she realised it was still in that pretty bouquet of braids her maid did for her. It felt wrong. Silly. But there was no time to redo her hair, as Ser Goodwin was already handing her her sword.

He brought her only the one blade—no shield.

She opened her mouth to ask, but he leaned up and said, next to her jaw, “He’s fast. A shield will only slow you down. Parry, and dodge.”

Brienne nodded, tears threatening to fall from her eyes and disgrace her before the match even began. “Thank you,” she said to her teacher, the only one who truly believed in her strength rather than merely humouring it.

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he merely patted her gloved hand before leading her into the open space on the courtyard, where Ser Jaime was testing his sword.

It was a handsome thing, the steel polished, the crossguard curved a little bit, a gleaming bracket around his own gloved hand, while the pommel, shaped into a lion’s head, roared from below his fist. It was a thin, light blade, the fuller but a narrow line in the centre of it, and Brienne thanked Ser Goodwin once more in her heart. A shield was not only unnecessary against such a light blade, it would also be an encumbrance.

She walked past the gaggle of men and women. Some—including men she guessed must have been part of the Lannister retinue—were openly gawking at her, but most merely gave her a cursory glance before their eyes were drawn once more to the Kingslayer, as a compass would to a lodestone. There was a sort of hush that fell as gossip about her and her many shortcomings were swallowed hastily at her arrival.

It was not a long walk, but it felt so, and she was half-sweating by the time she reached the open space, the men of her household standing in a circle to hold the spectators back. Lannister had watched her with as naked an expression as she’d seen on him, and when she was close enough, he smiled and bowed again.

She wanted to bash the back of his head with her pommel, but that would not count as a victory, much less a clean one, so she resisted.

“To the ground?” she asked him before his treacherous tongue could ooze more honeyed words.

“Or until one of us yields,” he said, nodding.

She stepped back, readied her stance, and so did he.

Ser Goodwin called out, for the benefit of the crowd more than anything else. Brienne listened to it detachedly, as though murmuring along with a prayer at the Sept: _...Lannister and Lady Brienne of House Tarth, for the honour of her hand in marriage, a match to the ground or until one yields to the other…_

And then he clapped his hand, the sound of it jangling in Brienne’s head as she launched herself at Lannister.

Brienne had gotten used to her opponents. They all fell into the same categories: members of her own household, familiar and predictable; cocky, untrained, untested men, even more predictable than her own brother; trained and tested men, still weaker than her.

Jaime Lannister was none of these men.

He parried, and when their blades slid against each other, he pushed with his whole weight behind it. He was _heavy._ His frame was all muscle and sinew, dense and unyielding. They sprang apart, then met once more. Each impact rang up her arms and rattled her teeth. Gone were her nerves, all thoughts she had of marrying him. Only her training remained and pure instinct beneath it as she parried, side-stepped, lunged. Move after move as they circled each other.

Yet she could not break through his guard, and he could not get past hers—no. He was barely trying! He was fast, and trim enough to crowd her, get too close for her to move against him, but he didn’t. His face split in a gruesome grin, like a starved animal. She briefly wondered if he would unhinge his jaw and swallow her whole, but perhaps he was waiting until he finished toying with her first.

She leapt a couple of steps back and he did the same. For a while, they circled each other. She, warily. He, with great amusement plain on his face.

He called out, “Your castellan trained you well, my lady.”

Brienne saw red.

How dared he? Squired to Ser Barristan Selmy, knighted at fifteen by the Sword of the Morning, Kingsguard, _Kingslayer,_ and he dared condescend to her as if she were a little girl playing at war. She’d heard that before from other men, mere moments before she drove them to the dirt. They had been lesser men. But Jaime Lannister was not lesser. She was not better than he, for she had never left the island save for balls and fetes in Storm’s End where her father desperately peddled her hand to eligible men of any age. She had never seen true battle, had never drawn blood in any way that mattered, had never been allowed to be _more_ than a little girl playing at war.

And he knew it. He knew she could be his equal, perhaps more, and he taunted her with it.

She caught Ser Goodwin’s eyes at the edge of her sight. The man was shaking his head, very slightly. _Don’t let him goad you._

She charged.

And in two quick moves, he knocked her sword out of her hand.

The impact of it left her wrist smarting. Under her glove, she could feel the skin growing hot, perhaps as red as her furious face.

He held the tip of his blade under her chin. He asked, as though asking for her to dance with him at a ball, “My lady?”

“I have a name,” was what escaped her. It sounded so girlish, so petulant, and she hated it.

He lowered his voice as he said, “Lady Brienne. Please, yield.”

“I can still fight.” She said through gritted teeth.

He inclined his head, once more amicable. “If that is what my lady wishes.”

Brienne closed her eyes. Her opponent waited, as politely as one could with his blade still extended towards her. For a quick moment, she thought of wagering her palms on the thickness of her gloves and yanking it, blade first, arming herself and disarming him in one fell swoop. But that was folly, which would serve only to embarrass her further, if not slice her hand open.

Slice her hand and give it to him. That was sure to herald a happy marriage.

She exhaled and opened her eyes, meeting his startled ones. She felt no less furious, though she was no longer sure at whom. Still, she raised her voice and said, to all who watched, “I yield.”

He lowered his blade, then dropped it to the ground. There was… an odd sort of awe on his face, one that merely stoked the anger roiling in her gut.

She said to him, “I have sworn an oath before gods and men and I will keep it. I shall marry you, _Ser_ Jaime Lannister.”

Brienne might as well have spat at his feet. He smiled, gallant, vicious. His eyes were as flat as flint, opaque in the shadows as his golden hair was lit aflame by the scorching sun behind him. He took her hand, gently, and peeled off her glove. She wanted to pull away, but she couldn’t.

He brought her knuckles to his lips.

As sweet as honeyed nettles, he declared, “Lady Brienne. You have made me the happiest of men.”

As the crowd roared in approval, she felt the sting of his kiss.


	2. The Betrothed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selwyn Tarth was, to Brienne's surprise, unhappy with her betrothed.

To Brienne’s surprise, Father showed no signs of joy when he met them at the edge of the courtyard. Rather, he coldly congratulated Ser Jaime and requested to speak to her. In private.

Brienne was a woman grown, nineteen this year, yet the tone of her father’s voice brought her back to when she’d been small enough to hide behind her mother’s skirts, when her mother had still been around for her to hide behind. She had thought Father would be glad to be rid of the thorn in his side, the daughter who’d brought him unending grief. And yet, as they walked to his study, his mouth was set in a stiff line that many had said she’d inherited from him.

As soon as he closed the door, he whirled around and said, heavily, “You could have continued the bout.”

It was not at all what Brienne expected him to say, but as she was still grappling with the same accusation in her own mind, she managed to answer, “I would have still lost.”

“But you yielded to him.”

Brienne wanted to make excuses, but there were none. She _had_ lost. It didn’t matter if it had happened earlier than later. Ser Jaime hadn’t even fought dirty. No, he won fairly, and if anything, his moves were exceedingly crisp and clean, and she imagined that if he’d had his white cloak with him still, it would have stayed pristine through their bout. “I did,” she said. “And now I am betrothed to him.”

Father went and poured himself wine, taking a drink before sitting behind his desk. He gestured to the chair across him and Brienne sat, still in her training clothes, still—she realised with a slight jolt—carrying her sword. Carefully, she laid it down on the floor next to the chair.

“Tell me, Brienne, do you wish to marry him?” he asked, and when she opened her mouth to answer, he raised a hand. “If not for your oath. If you, right now, could choose freely without that burden, will you agree to wed the Kingslayer?”

The name sounded like a curse, from Selwyn Tarth’s mouth, and it informed her of one thing. She said, “You disapprove of him.”

His hand clenched into a fist. Selwyn never raised his hand against his children, so Brienne felt no fear, and yet there was something discomfiting about how her father was reacting to her betrothal. “An oathbreaker and a liar from _that_ family? How could I be expected to count him as my son?”

Brienne frowned. “You _invited_ him here, Father,” she reminded him, unnecessarily. “Did you think I stood a chance against him?”

“I did not expect you to _yield,_ ” he said. His eyes were bright and furious and almost, almost Targaryen violet. It was said that house Tarth had descended from one, long ago, and right now Brienne could believe it.

“I don’t understand,” Brienne said, but it was not true. Her father’s scheme began to take form in her mind, and it was so terrible, so unbearable. If it were true, it would be a betrayal.

“I wanted you to fight, my dear. I wanted you to fight him, tooth and nail, and I wanted you to refuse his hand when you lost to him despite all your might.”

The rest was easy enough to surmise. “So I would accept the next suitor you brought here, without condition. You wished to injure my pride so I would break my oath.”

His frown deepened. “It was a silly oath. You know it was.”

“Because I did not swear it in a sept? Because it held no import beyond my own happiness, my own honour? Or because you deemed it inconvenient to yourself?” Her voice was cracking. Her eyes stung with hot tears. She didn’t care. Let Father watch what he had wrought. “I thought you understood me.”

“I thought, after the first dozen or so, you would like someone enough to marry him, no matter how good he is with a sword.”

“They all came for my fortune. They didn’t give a whit whether I was happy, or comfortable, as long as they could claim their connection to you, and through you, the crown. _He_ is no different. I understand this, Father, I understand that no man could love me, but if I am to be wed lovelessly, then let it be to a strong man.”

“The Kingslayer—”

“Defeated me. I loathe him, Father. I have no affection for him and his pretence, but he won and you will allow me to stay true to my own words. I will be Lady Lannister. Your grandchildren will inherit Casterly Rock, and at last, I will be of use to our house.” As she declared her fate, Brienne felt the tears fall, felt her own breaths rocking her chest, but she continued, word after word, locking them in place lest Father tried to make her break those, too.

Father stayed quiet, his eyes wide in shock. Briefly, she wondered what he was thinking of, but she decided she didn’t care. Not now.

She stood, her chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. “When you write to my brother, send my love for him. I shall freshen up before supper.”

She left. Her father didn’t stop her.

* * *

Brienne wanted to cut a training dummy into kindling, but she wanted solitude more—and she had left her sword on the floor, in her father’s study. So, she went to her quarters, called for a bath, and dismissed all her maids after they drew one for her. She assessed her body as she stripped, finding everything intact. Not even her wrist had been bruised by the flat of Lannister’s blade. And her knuckles were smooth, unblemished, even though his kiss should have sloughed her skin off the bones.

Galladon would remind her that she was being melancholy, but her brother was in Highgarden, drunk on Arbor wine and the affection of his new wife. Victaria Tyrell was a tall, willowy beauty, with dark eyes and earth-brown hair, wearing a secret smile that promised mischief—or so he had said, in his last letter.

Galladon had never known melancholy. Golden and beautiful and all that was worth inheriting from their bloodline, he’d left only scraps for Brienne when it was her turn to be born. Father had always favoured Galladon, and while Brienne understood the reason behind it, while Galladon had never been anything but an attentive, loving brother, while she held nothing against him, he could never understand her melancholy.

So Brienne tucked her feelings away and—as she scrubbed her body red and soaked until her fingertips wrinkled—she arranged her own letter to her brother in her mind, something appropriate that was neither dishonest nor improper. She told herself it was practice for later, when she had to spout falsehoods on how fortunate she was to be wedded to Jaime Lannister. How handsome he was, which was true. How strong—also a truth. And finally, how he had treated her as any lady would wish to be treated by her husband—which was perhaps not a lie, remembering the swooning maids when he kissed her hand.

She dried herself off, put on her shift, and placed a sheet of paper on her writing desk. Then, she sharpened her quill, dipped it in ink, and held it over the paper. Watched the blackness drip in fat splotches onto the white surface. She could not write, not the baldest lie, not the truest words.

She rang the maids to help her prepare for supper and hoped that Father’s own letter would have to do.

The maids asked her many, many, many questions, but when she merely responded in one or two words, they chatted among themselves as Brienne let herself be dressed. They laid out her most daring gown, deep red with glass beads arranged around her collar. Brienne nearly refused it, but she swallowed the objection. She would have to wear the colours of her new house, eventually. Better she got accustomed to it sooner than later.

They moved to arrange her hair in a similar style as this morning, but she waved them away. Let Lannister see her hair unadorned. Limpid, straw-like. He already fought her—there was no more use prettying herself for him, now. In truth, she suspected she could go down to supper wearing a gown of grain sack, and he would still pretend to be enamoured.

With that thought, she refused the kohl and rouge offered to her, declined the jewellery save for a signet ring that used to belong to her mother.

She said her first lie when her maids asked if she didn’t want to look pretty for her future lord husband: “I didn’t want to disappoint him, on our wedding night.” The mere idea of a bedding burnished her face scarlet, and it was enough to convince her maids.

They assured her that she would not be a disappointment, and one even dared to suggest that perhaps he liked women who could fight like men. She nodded and smiled, and if it was a stiff smile, they all assigned it to shyness.

Brienne knew they came to her service so they could obtain a husband of their own, yet still, they were kind to her. She had never thought about what they would do if she were to wed, and so she asked them, “When I’m to go to Lannisport, will you come with me?”

The chatter halted.

“I don’t know yet,” one said.

Another said, “It’s quite far, though, isn’t it?” And hastily, she added, “But if milady wishes—”

“I won’t force you,” she said, weary. “It isn’t to happen soon. By then my brother will be here with his new wife, and I’m sure she will be glad to take you in.”

That launched a dozen and more questions on what sort of lady had married Lord Galladon, and Brienne left the maids to their speculations as she went to supper.

* * *

Supper was fine, if fine meant numerous attempts of ingratiation from her betrothed. He was all too _happy._ She’d seen a number of sycophantic suitors, now, but they had been all too careful, lest they had offended her, while Ser Jaime seemed intent to offend her with seemingly innocent remarks.

Thankfully, she was known to be shy off the training grounds, and she had used the excuse numerous times. If her face reddened, no one would assume it was anger, for who could be angry in the face of this handsome lord heaping praises on one’s footwork, of all things, or the understated ring on her finger that “must hold importance” to her?

She did not say that he was right, that the ring had been once her mother’s, but she was all too aware of the way the golden band felt cold and a little tight on her finger.

He had not commented on her face or her stature. No remarks on how she was a _unique_ sort of woman, even. He complimented her mother’s ring, and that was the end of his observations on her attire.

At least, she thought, he was not dishonest on that subject, but it was not as if she was unaware of his thoughts, the way he looked at her face with a slack jaw and a frown between his brows when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Father was still not happy. He poured Ser Jaime’s wine, played the part of a fair, if cold, host, but he had not brought up anything on the wedding, though one was sure to happen, if Brienne had any say about it.

In the end, when even the wine was out, Ser Jaime said, “My Lord, beg pardon for my forwardness, but how long is this betrothal to be? I should like to write to my family, so they may make their journey here for the wedding.”

Brienne caught the aghast expression flickering, very briefly, on Father’s face at the idea of _more_ Lannisters darkening the doorway of Evenfall Hall. Selwyn asked, “You still wish to proceed, then?”

Brienne opened her mouth, though she did not know what she would say, but Ser Jaime somehow placed his hand over hers.

Ser Jaime said, “Of course,” and on his face was confusion so sincere, Brienne thought it might be the only time she’d seen his bare face since he’d made port. He said, after a moment, “Does my lady not wish to proceed?”

“No,” Brienne said, too quick, too loud. “No,” she repeated, softer this time. “I have consented. I will keep my word.”

“Brienne,” Selwyn began, low and careful. When she refused to look at him, he said to Ser Jaime, “Must you have her hand as your boon?”

“Her hand has always been my intent, Lord Selwyn. Or did my father introduce me differently in his letter? Did he perhaps suggest I was merely to challenge the Lady Brienne for my own pride, and not to form a connection between our houses?”

Selwyn said, at length, “No. He did not. But you’ll forgive me if I had thought a man such as yourself would rather have a less inconvenient prize for your victory.”

“Lord Selwyn.” Ser Jaime’s hand was hot and tight over Brienne’s, but he looked only at her father, a frigid smile on his face. “I hope you meant only to insult me. I don’t suffer insults to my lady wife well.”

Brienne wrenched her hand away from him. “I do not need you to defend me, Ser, least of all from my own father. And Father…” She falters, then. “If this betrothal is to be broken off, it would not be by my choice.”

She stood, mumbled her excuses, and scurried away.

* * *

It had been four days, and Brienne still could not walk the halls of her own home without flinching at every shadow. It was silly, of course. She had nothing to fear from running into Lannister or Father, save for perhaps a stilted, awkward conversation.

In that sense, perhaps she had, in fact, everything to fear from such encounters.

She took her meals in her rooms, telling them that her moon’s blood made her ill. It was not yet time for her blood, nor had it ever affected her as severely as it did other women, but it was an excuse that men such as them would likely not question.

She was trying and failing to pen another letter to her brother when there was a knock on her door. It was Septa Roelle, her face scrunched up in an ugly frown—not that she had ever looked at Brienne in any way that was not disapproving.

“Your Father wants you in the courtyard.”

It was a warm afternoon, not yet time for dinner. There was absolutely nothing Father could require of Brienne, and if he wanted to reprimand her for hiding, he would summon her up to his study. Still, she was curious, so she stood and made for the door.

Septa Roelle opened her mouth, but Brienne shot her an askance glance and the old woman shut it. “That dress will do,” she admitted.

Brienne was wearing a day dress, and it was by no means the finest of her wardrobe, though it was her favourite. A light blue that shifted almost silver under the sunlight, with a high collar that was closed with an ivory brooch. It was simple, perhaps a little too simple for Selwyn Tarth’s daughter, but the fabric was one that matched her colouring.

They ran into Ser Jaime, who seemed to have received the same summons Brienne had. He was dressed in blue, and upon seeing her he paused, mouth agape and brows knotted as he seemed to always do, around her, before clearing his throat.

She curtseyed. This appeared to remind him of his manners, as he then bowed and offered his arm—and she took it, as years of etiquette lessons had taught her to.

“Lady Brienne,” he said. “We match.”

They did, though her dress was much lighter than his doublet. Somehow, it felt wrong. When she wore his colours, it was done with great deliberation. Now, it was an accident—an unpleasant one, at that. Or perhaps it was not? Perhaps he wore it as he wore his smiles, as he threw about pleasantries. Perhaps it was yet another way he was ingratiating himself.

She did not answer, letting her flushed cheeks speak instead. What he inferred from that, she cared not.

“Do you know what this is all about?” he asked.

“No.”

“Perhaps your father’s agreed, at last, to let me wed you?” he asked again, prodding. Why he was so intent on having her speak, she didn’t know.

“Perhaps,” she said, though she thought it was unlikely. It would take more than the words of his least favourite child and the Kingslayer to convince Father to lie in the bed he had made himself. He was not stupid, most days, but he was stubborn, and even more so when he believed himself righteous.

Fortunately for Brienne, they arrived at the courtyard, and any thought of her uncertain nuptials was banished, for she was all too busy running into her brother’s arms.

Galladon must have been exhausted, but he barely showed it as he lifted and swung her around, ignoring that she was broader than him, if not taller. “Sister!” he exclaimed. “A sight for sore eyes, you are.”

Anyone else, and she would have taken offence. This, however, was her brother, who rarely could muster up insincerity. “You’re home early!” she half-shouted, in between girlish giggles. None but Galladon could make her feel so young and small.

“Aye, I am. Missed this sodding island too much, and Victaria said she would not mind seeing her new home earlier.” He stepped aside and reached a hand out to a slender woman in a travelling cloak. She lowered her hood and smiled at Brienne, and though she seemed worn and pallid, it was a sincere thing. “Lady Brienne of Tarth, may I introduce my wife, Lady Victaria Tyrell—well, Victaria Tarth.”

Victaria took Brienne’s hands in her own. “Lady Brienne. Your brother could scarcely stop telling me tales of your accomplishments.”

Brienne leaned back, aghast. Only the Seven knew what sort of stories Galladon had told Victaria. “You must never believe him and his tall tales. He likes to exaggerate. Greatly.”

Galladon laughed. “You wound me, and so soon after I made port!” He paused, then, looking into a middle distance before he said, carefully, “Ser Jaime Lannister. I didn’t know you were at Evenfall Hall.”

Brienne turned. Next to Ser Jaime was her father, looking slightly discomfited. She knew, immediately, what the right thing to do was. She let go of Lady Victaria’s hands and reached for Ser Jaime, much in the same way her brother had reached for his wife.

Ser Jaime’s eyes widened, but he did not question her. He took her hand, enveloped it between both of his, and brought it to his lips. This time, his kiss was barely a brush of his lips across her knuckles. If she didn’t know better, she would think he was shy.

Brienne said, to a perplexed Galladon, “Brother, Ser Jaime Lannister—he and I are to be wed, soon. Ser Jaime, my brother, Lord Galladon of Tarth, heir to Evenfall Hall.”

As her brother shook hands with her betrothed, she stole a glance at her father. He looked straight at her, and she knew immediately that she would need to explain herself—but also that she had succeeded. Galladon might be Father’s favourite, but _she_ was Galladon’s sweet sister.

Lady Victaria cited exhaustion and retired early. Father stole Galladon away, and then it was only Ser Jaime there with Brienne. She cast her eyes at the armoury, forlorn. She missed the weight of a blade in her hand.

“Shall we train, my lady?” Ser Jaime asked, startling her.

She wanted to, but not in front of him. She shook her head, ready to decline, but he reached for her hand, and this time, with the courtyard empty and no witnesses about, she jerked her hand away.

He didn’t show any disappointment if he felt it. Instead, he said, “I do not want to drive you away from your own courtyard. If you wish to train alone, I will retire and not bother you.”

He was gentle. Considerate. She hated it. “Stay,” she said. “Or leave. But do neither on my account. I don’t care.”

“Then I’ll stay,” he declared.

She walked to the armoury, not with him, but he trailed behind her nonetheless. His own sword was in his quarters, and he didn’t know where his squire was, so he badgered her to choose a blade for him.

She picked the closest longsword to her and offered it to him, and he thanked her profusely as though she’d granted him a great boon.

At first, they trained in silence, going through their stances. It didn’t last long. Ser Jaime said, “Your brother seems a good man.”

“He is.”

“I’m rather surprised you introduced me to him as your betrothed.”

“Are you?” she asked. She had thought it was impossible to surprise him and his smirks. “Father might deny it all he wanted, but I am a woman grown. Much as I am bound by my obligations to my house, I am—by law—allowed to choose whom I marry.” It didn’t mean much when matches were largely arranged by one’s house, but it still allowed her to set her oath, her condition. “And,” she added, “I do not think it is wise to break word with House Lannister. Wars have been waged for less.”

“And your father? He wasn’t too keen on our match.”

Father wasn’t too keen on any Lannister, but she let that thought go unspoken. “He shouldn’t have allowed you to court me. But he did, and you defeated me, and as such, we are engaged.”

Ser Jaime laughed, then. “I’ve never heard of courtship by the sword, yet here we are.”

It was the first time he acknowledged her strangeness, how she did not fit, how she was nothing like a highborn lady. Her ears burnt, but she turned to look at him, properly, only to find that he was already watching her mirthfully. “Here we are,” she agreed. “My father can be easily swayed, once Galladon is convinced.”

“And how do we convince your brother?”

The presumption grated at her. “You do not have to do anything. I will convince my brother.”

“Forgive me if I do not wish to sit and wait for judgement like a prisoner, my lady.”

She felt her heart racing, though she did not know _why._ As far as liars went, he was a harmless one. “You are forgiven,” she said coolly. “But I know my brother. I will talk to him.”

He tilted his head. “As you wish, my lady.”

Then, she completed her training as she had begun it: in silence, pretending he didn’t exist even as every inch of her was aware of his presence.


	3. The Mummer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding was to happen. Tarth received a few guests.

As it turned out, it was not difficult at all to convince Galladon. All it took from Brienne was a simple account of his courtship and the acknowledgement that Ser Jaime had, in fact, won her hand fairly, and Galladon agreed to talk to Father.

She was still reeling from how _easy_ her brother was to sway, compared to her father, when he asked, “Do you love him?”

This startled her, despite all that had occurred in the past sennight. She laughed, more out of surprise than anything, and then said, “What has that got to do with wedding him?”

He turned over the cup in his hand, watching the amber tea within. He had been more maudlin like this, since Highgarden, as though the place had installed in him a newfound appreciation in mundane beauty. Perhaps it had, or perhaps it was merely his love for his wife.

He _did_ love his wife. Perhaps that good fortune had given him the foolish idea that she should wed someone she loved.

Galladon said, after he finished inspecting his tea, “None at all, save for making your marriage more bearable.”

Ser Jaime was nowhere close to bearable. No, he was _insufferable._ But his house, ridiculed and poor as it was, still had more standing than at least half the suitors that she had felled in the yard. “My children will inherit Casterly Rock,” she said to Galladon, as she had said to Father.

“Yes, that _is_ a good thing. And you’ve a good head on your shoulders, and with a little help from our family, you can rebuild house Lannister.” He looked at her and frowned. “Don’t look so flummoxed, sweet sister. What kind of family are we, if we’re to sell you to them and leave you to survive from their scraps?”

“But Father—”

“Has agreed to pass on the mantle of Evenstar to me, as soon as Victaria gives us an heir. It will be soon.” He pushes a plate of little crumbly pies closer to her. “She’s three moons along, according to Maester Dafyd. As soon as she’s back on her feet, you should spend time with her.”

Brienne didn’t know what she could possibly have in common with Lady Victaria, but she would rather not ruin her brother’s joy. “Congratulations,” she said, raising one of those pies in an unconventional toast.

Galladon raised his teacup. “And to you, for your upcoming nuptials.”

* * *

As Brienne had thought, it was no great difficulty for her brother to sway their Father, and so—begrudgingly—Father declared that the wedding was to be held one moon hence. Brienne briefly considered begging for more time, but it might not be good to stretch his patience. And so she accepted it, as did Ser Jaime.

Still, one moon was enough time to commission a new gown. Her maiden’s cloak would be one worn by Tarth daughters of generations past. It was heavy with many pieces of embroidery, added one by one to patch up wears and tears over the last century or so. Somehow, it was still a thing of beauty, blue and rose that, seen from a distance, mimicked the sea at dusk.

Lady Victaria had, after a brief period of convalescence, taken upon herself the duty of overseeing Brienne’s gown. Brienne was glad to have her new goodsister’s help. She’d gotten by with her maids’ assistance whenever she needed to commission a new dress, but a wedding was a different beast entirely from her day-to-day attire. Victaria, as she demanded Brienne call her, was of the same age as Brienne, yet carried herself with the self-assurance of someone born beautiful and the gentleness of an affectionate older sister.

Victaria called for tailors and seamstresses from the town. She selected one that she liked best, and the two of them picked a bolt of silk from across the Narrow Sea for Brienne’s dress. It was the lightest grey-blue, shot with golden thread like rays of sunshine across an overcast sky. Together, she and the seamstress brought it next to Brienne’s face and nodded solemnly in an incomprehensible agreement.

Brienne’s request to make the dress easy to move in was easily accommodated. Victaria said, “Of course it shan’t impede your movement. The fete will last all day, and we have to ensure your comfort throughout.” She held Brienne’s face between her two hands and looked at her with gleaming eyes. Her voice was firm. Kind. “I know we’ve not known each other for long, but we’re sisters now. I will make you a bride to be envied, don’t you worry about it.”

There was something like pity in her expression, but Brienne was too grateful for Victaria’s compassion that for once, she did not bemoan the circumstances of her betrothal.

Aside from the dress, there was the feast to prepare. The castle was bustling as the kitchen staff rushed to get ready what could be prepared in advance, as Brienne and the steward mulled over menu selections and imported produce. Begrudging as Father might be, he had allowed a significant sum to go to the wedding, and hence the feast. He could not skimp, not when they received word from King’s Landing that even though the King and Queen could not come, on account of Queen Lyanna expecting her second child, Lord Renly would attend the wedding as their representative.

With Lord Renly’s raven came another one addressed to Ser Jaime, and he announced it over supper with an odd expression on his face: “My sister is coming with Lord Renly’s party.”

“What is she like?” Galladon asked.

Ser Jaime adjusted his grip on the cutlery. “She’s beautiful. Father once tried offering her to Prince Rhaegar. It did not quite work out, as you see.”

“But she is still in King’s Landing?”

Ser Jaime cleared his throat. “Yes. She’s one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, now.”

Brienne had heard of Cersei Lannister, of course. All the land had. Bitter, with a sharp tongue and an untameable pride, so much so that no amount of beauty could win her a match. One of Brienne’s suitors had said that had Brienne had Lady Cersei’s beauty, she would have made a perfect bride, with her fortune and good nature.

That suitor had not heard of Brienne’s requirement, and not long after she had made him eat a handful of dirt, he had changed his thoughts on the matter.

“She’s still unwed?” Father asked, and though his tone was neutral, Brienne saw a glint of glee in his eyes.

“She is,” Ser Jaime said. “Perhaps she’ll meet someone here.”

Brienne did not know what it was that unsettled her about Cersei Lannister’s impending arrival. Lady Cersei’s reputation, surely, but there was something else. A premonition. An omen. Brienne searched the face of her betrothed, the lady’s twin.

She found nothing but more churning in her gut.

* * *

Lord Renly arrived with Cersei Lannister on his arm. They made a lovely pair, he with his handsome smiles, she with a beauty so sharp it could cut glass. No one had expected them to be this close; Lord Selwyn’s jaw was clenched as he welcomed his liege, while Ser Jaime had a false smile plastered to his face as he kissed his sister’s cheek.

“I’ve not been in Tarth since your coming of age, Lady Brienne. It remains beautiful as it was back then,” Lord Renly said.

Next to him, Lady Cersei giggled lightly. “Yes, the _island_ is quite lovely, is it not? Still, there’s something to be said about the people in King’s Landing. You should visit us, sometime,” she said. She wasn’t looking at her hosts, however. Lady Cersei’s eyes were fixed firmly on her own brother, and face-to-face, they could almost be each other’s mirror image.

“Very droll, my lady,” Renly said, “but King’s Landing has nothing on Tarth. By virtue of fresh air alone, the island has won.”

“I suppose there’s an untamed, exotic quality to it,” she said, and though she could very well be talking about the many Essosi merchants about the harbour, it was said in a pointed manner that Brienne could not quite decipher.

Galladon’s smile was stiff. He was never good at pretending, and even less adept at keeping calm in the face of an insult to his home. Victaria had one hand resting lightly on his arm, and it seemed to Brienne as though it was the only thing keeping him civil.

Victaria said, unflappable, “There’s more time to take in the untamed, exotic island after you’ve rested. Come, allow us to show you to your carriage.”

With the same firm kindness she’d exhibited before, Victaria herded the guests into their carriage, and they all released a collective breath when the carriage doors were closed and the guests were on their way.

* * *

Something changed in Ser Jaime when his sister arrived. Somehow, he became warmer, sweeter, more infuriating. He retold the story of their bout to Lord Renly, and he did it in such a way that Brienne wished she had a sword with her, right then, at supper. But she merely had a knife to carve her steak, and so she carved with gusto. Perhaps the sound of her knife scraping onto her plate would deafen her to the humiliation.

“She yielded!” Lord Renly exclaimed, with great amusement. “Why, my whole life knowing Lady Brienne, I’ve never known her to _yield_.”

Her hand was so tight around her knife, but it was no tighter than her smile. “I’ve never seen the virtue of yielding to one’s inferior,” she said. “Ser Jaime was different.”

“No, I imagine he’s a far cry from the men who have come begging for your hand,” Lady Cersei said. There was a sneer on her face, and this time Brienne was sure she hadn’t imagined it.

It rankled. Whatever it was Cersei Lannister was insinuating, Brienne could not abide by it. “He defeated me in a fair bout. No man after my hand had ever accomplished that.”

She felt Ser Jaime’s hand peeling her fingers off her knife, bringing it to the sharp edge of his own smile. “And thank the gods for that, for I could never be happy again otherwise.” He held her eyes as he kissed her knuckles. “My love.”

Her arm jerked involuntarily, but his hold was firm as a vice as he quickly darted his eyes to the guests watching them. She stretched her mouth into a smile that felt like a snarl. “Before you came, my lord, I had thought I would die an old maid.”

“Wonderful!” Lord Renly exclaimed, clapping his hands as though he was watching a particularly riveting mummer’s show. Perhaps he was. She could not believe she had thought him the pinnacle of chivalry, once. Something careless flowed underneath his pretty words, that much she could see now. “I say, no better match has ever been made.”

Something careless, and something mocking.

Gods, she was a fool to have loved him.

Brienne pulled her hand away, gentler this time, and this time Ser Jaime let her go. Reaching for her cup, she hid her face ineffectually behind its narrow brim. She caught Lady Cersei’s eyes, then, and it was startling how similar they were to Ser Jaime’s, yet so much more hateful.

“A wedding for the ages, indeed,” Lady Cersei said. “Congratulations, brother. You’ve been unwed for far too long.”

No one mentioned that she was of the same age as her brother. They were twins, after all, unmistakably so, but just as unmistakable was the way her congratulation was a condemnation.

“Yes, Father did say that before sending me here,” he said, raising his cup before drinking from it. “I daresay he would be glad.”

“You’ve always cared about his opinion greatly. Indeed, I think he would welcome you and your—bride—at the Rock.”

“And I hope he will welcome me, in time,” Lord Renly said, his smile wide and beguiling, and Brienne felt a stillness fall on them all—all but Lady Cersei, who smiled prettily and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“You have—” Ser Jaime began, his eyes wide, but he never finished his sentence. The words hung unformed, then swallowed back as he took a long draught from his cup.

“No,” Lord Renly chuckled. “Not officially, at the very least. But I have cause to hope. Don’t I, my lady?”

“I’m sure Father’s reply will come to us soon. Before that, however…” she trailed away, but there was no uncertainty as to whether Lord Tywin would bless the match.

“And his grace, Lord Renly? What is his opinion on the matter?”

Everyone turned to look at Galladon, who had surprised them for asking such a pointed question. His face was serious, however, almost grave. Brienne knew her brother enough to see the anger beneath the quiet. Victaria seemed to also sense the same fury Brienne detected, for she had a hand on his arm, gentle but forbidding.

“He has long wanted me to marry. Secure our line. I believe he’s glad,” Lord Renly lied.

Brienne ought to congratulate him on his wonderful scheme. She had known—for a few years, now—the reason behind Lord Renly’s refusal to marry. Now that he was almost engaged, he’d chosen a woman so reviled by many, not least by his own brother the king, and what was his grace to do about it? Tell Renly to leave her, and risk him never marrying until the end of times?

_We are the same,_ Brienne realised. _We’re made of the same sort of spite and shame._

Fools. All four of them, Brienne and Ser Jaime and Lady Cersei and Lord Renly, fools who chose a lifetime of emptiness. For what, Brienne didn’t know. Something lofty, perhaps. Honour. Legacy. Pride.

She looked at Galladon and his wife, who held each other in mutual regard and affection. Brienne wondered if it would be easier to live hating her own brother. If she could blame him for taking all that was good in their family, leaving nothing but the sword for her.

Next to her, Ser Jaime made a jest she did not catch. They all laughed and pretended no offence had been made on this table, and somehow, somehow, supper ended without further incident.

Ser Jaime offered to walk Brienne to her chambers, and she did not know how to refuse him. With her hand resting on his arm, she thought her chambers would also be his, soon, and then no one’s as they uprooted her to go west. She hadn’t packed. She hadn’t given a thought on what to bring and what to leave behind. Childhood toys, books, a box of useless things that used to be her mother’s. Letters. So many letters, and many more in the future. Her chest constricted. The marbled floor before her turned liquid, her eyes hot and wet.

What stone made up the halls of Casterly Rock, she wondered. How much would her footsteps echo in its once-rich corridors?

“Lady Brienne?” he asked, unbearably gentle, but she kept walking, committing every vein of marbled floor into memory. “What is it? Tell me, my love.”

And it was that. That _lie_ that at last stopped her steps as she wrenched her arm away and whirled to face him. They were alone. She knew they were, knew the sounds of this castle like the back of her own hand. His hands came closer, trying to cup her face, and she shoved him away, palms firm against his chest, and he—did not stumble, not precisely, but he stepped back.

She lifted her eyes. Met his wide, startled eyes, noted his lips as they fell slightly open. “Do not pretend with me,” she said. She felt a rumbling in her, an avalanche of all the words she’d held back, all her distrust. “You do not love me, Ser. Nor do I love you. Let us be honest about that, at the very least. I must marry you to keep my word, and you must marry me for my fortune. I understand it if you perform your farce before others. I will not contradict you, in that case. But do _not_ feign desire, or happiness, when there’s naught but us. I cannot stand it.”

During her speech, his face went from surprise to confusion to something so sharp and ugly that she feared the lash of his tongue. But his voice was calm when he said, “If that is what you wish.”

She nodded brusquely. “It is.”

“May I ask?” he asked, and this time his voice was low and smooth and unlike the chivalrous knight he’d been pretending to be. He stepped forward; she kept her ground, though she wanted to flee. Their eyes were locked the whole time until his face was but a handsbreadth away from hers. When he spoke, his breath was warm against her own mouth. “I am my father’s heir, you know this. He will expect me to beget my own, too, else this marriage is of no use. What shall you do, then?”

Sweat beaded on her temples. She could feel the heat of his body, so close to hers, the way his eyes searched hers as though all her thoughts were stored there. Her mouth was dry. She wetted her lips. His eyes caught the movement and his jaw clenched, as though he was on the verge of being sick.

“Well?” he harshly demanded.

At last, she found her voice—small and meek and utterly despicable, but still her voice—and said, “I will do my duty. Will you do yours?”

It was as though she had slapped him, the way he jerked himself away from her. His own face was red, his brows knotted, his eyes furious. “No.”

Was the idea of bedding her so repulsive to him? Brienne wondered if Septa Roelle was right, after all. Perhaps she should just lie in the dark, and she might be less undesirable to her husband. “But you just said—”

“I know. Don’t you worry your pretty head about it, _my love,_ ” he said, at long last openly mocking, sneering—and she could finally see him as his sister’s twin. “We will still be wedded. But I have no desire to fuck someone who never truly wanted to wed me.”

She should feel satisfaction, now that she’d revealed him to be the man befitting the name Kingslayer. Here before her was an angry, unchivalrous man who would marry her but would not do the courtesy of consummating it, who would make a mockery of their marriage vows, who would dishonour her by refusing to confirm her position as the mother of his heirs. It appeared that just as he wished to spite everyone else by pretending to love her, he wished to spite her by denying her children their birth and inheritance while pretending it was a kindness to her. What an insult. She should laugh, for she was proven right. She had never trusted him, and she was _right._

And she still had to marry him, for she’d vowed it, even though he would wed her only so he could win her wealth before declaring her barren and discarding her in a few years.

He bowed. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have insisted on accompanying you.” All traces of disdain were gone from his voice, and in its place was an imitation of gentility. “I understand it might be difficult to leave such a beautiful home behind, but I will do my best to ensure your comfort as we return to the Rock.”

He left her alone in the corridor, then, as she discovered the bile-like taste of vindication.


	4. The Lord Husband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding of Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne of Tarth.

If Brienne had hoped that confronting her betrothed would make it easier for her to play bride—not that such hopes had ever been harboured, for her outburst had been merely a result of her composure snapping under one too many lies—it was a thin, vain thing. If anything, she was sent reeling by the drastic change between the devoted, smitten man Ser Jaime pretended to be before his sister and her own suitor and the cold shoulder he presented to Brienne when no one was looking. Much as she did not regret unmasking him for the cad that he was, she wondered if it would have been more bearable if she had let herself be buoyed by the fantasy of his affection instead.

The venom in Lady Cersei’s eyes every time her brother touched Brienne’s hand or called her his love was so vile, Brienne had wondered if the woman might try to poison her before the wedding happened. It was clear Lady Cersei never saw Brienne as a worthy bride for Ser Jaime, and Brienne wouldn’t be surprised if measures were taken to stop her from becoming a Lannister.

Mercifully, unfortunately, no attempts on her life took place, and in the end, it mattered little whether Brienne had lied to herself about her betrothed or not. Before gods and men, it would all have the same result: they would be wedded in Tarth’s own sept.

The wedding was to be held two hours after sunrise; Brienne had been getting ready since two hours before any lick of daylight. She was washed, scrubbed, oiled, painted, decorated. By the end of it, if she stood still long enough, she could almost be one of those ragdolls that little girls loved so much.

Still, no amount of wealth and finery could hide the gait of her steps, wide and firm as a man’s, or her broad shoulders, or her crooked nose. And yet by the end of it, Victaria dabbed her eyes with a kerchief and the maids snivelled at the sight of Brienne, the bride. Septa Roelle scowled in a corner, but even she did not have a cross thing to say against how Brienne looked.

“Didn’t think this day would ever come,” she croaked.

Right. Of course, she had something to say. Brienne held her tongue and darted one quick look at Victaria, whose mouth was half-open, perhaps in surprise or half-formed rebuke.

Septa Roelle continued, “Well, good on you. Tonight, just blow off all the lights. In the darkness, you’d look as much a woman as anyone. It’ll hurt but just bear with it. Won’t be anything as bad as the birthing bed, anyway.”

“Indeed,” said a wickedly sweet voice from the doorway. “I’m sure you know firsthand how a bedding feels like. And I suppose the birthing bed, too. Don’t you, Septa?”

Septa Roelle scowled even more that her brows seemed to be permanently knotted. Victaria coughed into her kerchief. It suspiciously sounded like a laugh.

Lady Cersei strode into the room, swathed in crimson and bright as a sun. She took Victaria’s arm and the sight of Brienne’s full bridal attire. “That’s a wonderful wedding gown. Your doing, Lady Victaria, no doubt. I know Highgarden influence when I see it.”

Brienne felt—more than the past three or so hours—as if she was nothing but a puppet on which the dress hung. She watched as Victaria gave Lady Cersei a hesitant smile, which was returned a hundredfold brighter.

Lady Cersei let go of Victaria, then took Brienne’s hands in her own. “Lady Brienne. You must forgive me, I have been most rude to you. You see, I was angry at my brother. We are twins, yes, but I was born first. Why, he was born with his fist around my ankle!”

“You seem close,” Brienne managed to say, though they had seemed anything but, with their odd gazes and stilted conversations. But then, who was to say that that was not how twins fought?

“We are! So imagine my outrage when I heard that he was to be wedded before me, even though I was born first. And I’m a woman, too. Everyone is harsher on me for that, certainly—oh, but today is not my day, is it?” Lady Cersei waved, and a maid entered with a lacquered box in her hands. “You’re to be wedded to Jaime, and we’re to be sisters today! I hope you’ll accept me as one.”

Lady Cersei opened the box, revealing a pendant, a tall oval with a lion’s head etched onto it, an emerald in each eye and a ruby in its mouth. Gold filigree framed the oval, with smaller rubies held in its every curve.

“It was our mother’s. It’s mine, now, but for today, I wish you to wear it. She would want that, I think.”

Stunned by this sudden change of heart, Brienne allowed Lady Cersei to fasten the chain around her neck. The pendant was cool against her collarbone, the chain heavy against her nape.

It felt like a shackle. It felt like a trap.

Brienne smiled and thanked Lady Cersei, and her smile never fell even as they put her maiden’s cloak around her shoulders and led her out of her room.

Brienne of Tarth was to be wedded. And much as Septa Roelle had been cruel, she also had been right: Brienne, too, hadn’t thought this day would ever come.

* * *

The Sept of the Evenstar was a building by the sea, constructed almost entirely of marble. It had always been a singular thing, but in the past seven years, as Tarth grew in wealth, so had the Sept grown in richness. The statues of the seven by its seven walls were now gilt and jewel-studded. The marbled floor, in the past scuffed and dull, had now been scrubbed and polished until Brienne could see her own reflection in it.

And her reflection did not look like herself.

Much as her wedding gown was comfortable and easy to move in, it was a gown, still, with a full skirt and a heavy cloak draped over it. A maiden’s cloak, at that, for she was a bride. Brienne. Was a bride. She wanted this, she wanted to be wedded and to have children, she wanted to be of use to her family, but the reflection on the floor looked like someone else and the lion pendant pulled the chain cold and heavy against her neck.

Her father was waiting for her at the vestibule, by the door to the main prayer chamber. All the women entered the Sept first as Brienne took Lord Selwyn’s arm. He was dressed as though he would be dining with the King, his doublet quartered blue and rose, Tarth through and through, with a thick rope of gold around his neck and a ring on nearly every knuckle, and yet he wore the expression of a mourner.

“Brienne, dear,” he said, gently. “It is not too late.”

Brienne could not believe him. She refused to. His hand moved to envelop the hand she had resting on the crook of his elbow. Selwyn Tarth was a furnace of a man, his embraces warm and sometimes stifling, but right now the rings around his fingers were cold against her skin. She pulled away, wordless.

Her father continued, pleaded, “The king would forgive it. He would enjoy the humiliation on house Lannister, I know it.”

“At what cost, Father?” she demanded. “It is too late. Take me to my husband and watch as your grandchildren restore Casterly Rock in the years to come.” She swallowed back the scream building in her throat, the knowledge that her husband had refused to honour her with heirs. Father didn’t need to know so much. She continued, her breath caught now, “I beg you forget this pettiness, for you had let this happen even before I’d made my choice.”

“Is everything well, old friend?” Lord Renly asked from the door, startling Brienne and her father both. His eyes were squinted in a way that she used to find charming, untouched by the vapid smile on his lips. “We’ve been waiting for a while.”

“It is nothing,” Brienne said. She pressed a hand to her chest, the jewelled pendant pressing against her fingertips. “A bride’s nerves, my lord, I’m sure you understand. Father had calmed me down, however. We will enter shortly.”

“Very good,” Lord Renly said, nodding. He didn’t seem like he cared much, but Brienne had discovered in the past sennight that he was committed to being careless in all things that had no bearing on himself.

“You lied,” Father said, as soon as Lord Renly was back in the sept.

“If you walk with me now, it needn’t be a lie.” She looped her arm with his once more. “Come, Father. We have both dug our own graves. We mustn’t keep them waiting.”

The bells rang as they walked in, and though it very much sounded like a dirge to Brienne, she kept their steps steady, slow and inevitable. Ser Jaime was waiting with the septon, clothed in blood-red and gold. His hair was long and loose, his eyes twinkling green, his mouth curved in the same odd smile she’d seen many times.

Victaria had let Brienne eat a pear, no more. The wedding gown was lovely, constructed to be comfortable, yet it was still traditional, its shape demanding the stays underneath to be tightly laced, her middle cinched smaller so as to push the mass up to her chest, down to her hips and create a temporary waist. Brienne could still breathe, yes, but she could not eat much, or at all.

It had been no issue, for this morning Brienne had felt no inclination to feast. And now, entering her wedding feeling as if she was a prisoner to be ransomed, she was sure that had she had a bigger breakfast, it would have risen to her throat.

But Brienne had eaten nothing more than the pear her goodsister allowed, and so her stomach was calm. Everything in her was still. Even her heart was beating as it would be on a slow afternoon. There was only the marble floor, meeting the soles of her shoes with every step. The bells, rung over and over that Brienne was sure she’d hear it tonight in her sleep. And the gazes of all those in the sept, following her and her father.

She walked as brides did. One step. Pause. Another, in time with the bells. Yet it was still too soon that she reached the altar, where the diminutive septon looked at her with slight disbelief, where Ser Jaime and his quizzical brow waited for her.

Brienne was quiet throughout the rites, and it almost felt like she wasn’t there. Her father let go of her arm. She let it drop to her side, and as her father moved to unfasten the clasp of her maiden’s cloak she barely had the presence of mind to shrug it off her shoulders. She might have imagined it—she might have not—but her father squeezed her shoulder, once, as he pulled the cloak away.

She didn’t know what to make of it, just as her whole life Selwyn Tarth had never known what to make of his daughter.

Her eyes were set on her own hands, now entwined in front of her, half-supplication, half-nerves, and she didn’t notice the red and gold cloak until it was unfurled before her. She watched Ser Jaime whip it with a flourish and place it around her—himself tall enough that he needn’t ask her to lower herself—and carefully, he moved to fasten the clasp, his hands gliding over her shoulders, light as a ghost, heavy as an anchor—and then he stopped.

She looked up to see his face, but he wasn’t looking at her—or rather, not her face. His gaze was set on the lion pendant. She lifted her hand, touched it, and that startled him. He raised his eyes to meet hers and simply—she did not know how to explain it but that he—drank in the sight of her, his face white as the marbles of the sept, his jaw clenched so tight she could see a vein bob on his throat.

“Is something wrong?” she whispered, for she felt acutely the way all in the room watched them both.

“No. I simply—the pendant, I did not know my sister gave it to you.” He tried fastening the cloak, fumbled and missed, and tried again. It worked, this time, if a little lopsided. He straightened it up and said hoarsely, “She’s not usually so good at sharing.”

“It’s borrowed—I don’t own it, I mean.” Something in his expression was forbidding, so she added, “She said your mother would like me to wear it today.”

He looked at her long and hard, as though trying to discern a lie where she had none, then said, “Mother was a generous woman.”

Brienne had an apology formed in her mouth—for what transgression, she did not know, only that she’d done something wrong and it gnawed at her—yet before she could say it, the septon cleared his throat.

“May we proceed?” he asked.

Ser Jaime let go of the cloak, whose edges had still rested in his loose grasp. “Of course. Forgive me,” he called out to the crowd with a smile that was equal parts sheepish and charming. “I was overcome by feelings for my love. Well, hurry then, good septon. I can’t wait until she is mine, and I am hers.”

Anger flared up in her, her cheeks hot, but the crowd laughed indulgently and a lone wolf-whistle pierced her ear—yet another insult—and the septon said some more rites and she emptied her mind of all remorse, keeping only the fury, until—

“With this kiss,” Ser Jaime said, “I pledge my love.” And he leaned in, and Brienne said the same thing in a rush as she closed her eyes, just in time, and his lips pressed against hers.

It was a soft, chaste kiss, over as soon as it started. He leaned back and they joined hands and this time she said the vows in time with him, the words rote and her heart oddly calm.

It was done. They were married. When the crowd cheered, she looked only to the open doorway and out to the shore. Soon, she would be parted from her home.

* * *

Lady Cersei and Lord Renly were the first to congratulate them, and they did so together as though they were already wedded. Brienne could almost hear the gasps, the whispered _why, they aren’t even betrothed yet,_ and she wished she felt something other than relief.

“Goodsister, welcome to the family. I hope our humble house will be to your liking,” Lady Cersei said, kissing Brienne’s cheek. She barely managed to say thank you before Lady Cersei turned to her twin. “And my congratulations to you, brother. You could not choose a more fitting bride. Why, she’s almost got our colouring, don’t you think?”

Lord Renly laughed. “Ah! I hadn’t thought about that, my dear, well spotted. Lady Brienne does look almost a Lannister, does she not? Blond hair and all. You’ll produce—” and here he faltered, almost imperceptibly, “—fine-looking children, yes, I’m sure of it.”

Lady Cersei coughed into a kerchief. “Yes, my nephews and nieces will be positively statuesque.”

“Already counting them, Sister?” Ser Jaime said. “That’s very much like you, running away with your thoughts.” To Lord Renly, he said, in a mock whisper, “Take care that she does not have her head in lofty schemes, once you’re wedded, won’t you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare stop her from following her heart. It’s what led her to me, after all.” Lord Renly locked eyes with Lady Cersei, and Brienne could almost, almost believe the love they pretended to have for each other if she hadn’t played the same game for some sennights already.

“Thank you for your well-wishes, Lord Renly, Lady Cersei,” Brienne found herself saying, sickened by the farce. “I believe we’ve other guests to greet.”

Her husband looked at her—she could feel his gaze burning into her—but she could not care to see what expression he wore. He said with a slightly strangled voice, “My lady wife is a gracious host, isn’t she? Please excuse us.”

And they did, but before any other guest could come forward, Galladon and Victaria herded them all to the feast in Evenfall Hall, and then there were food and wine and merriment.

Wine brought with it intoxication and daring, and the red-faced guests congratulated them with derision and barely-hidden insults. How lovely she looked, what a grand husband he made, how surely they would bring greatness to their houses, and all agreed that they were indeed a good match, why, how _fortunate_ it was that they found each other!

Though none of the cruelty was novel, Brienne seethed, hiding her scowl behind her cup. Her face grew redder and redder; from anger or the wine, she could not tell. Ser Jaime, her perfect husband, put his arm around her and refilled her cup and held her hand and kissed it, all the while calling her his love. She believed him a little less every time, and by the end of it, her regard for him was nonexistent.

The food and wine ran out too late, too soon. Belatedly, Brienne thought she should have made her exit while the guests were busy with the fare, and not after. But perhaps it was not too late. She touched her husband’s arm.

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

“A bedding!” cried a reedy voice, and the room cheered.

Amidst the scraping chairs and the guests stumbling upward, Brienne saw the ruddy man who doomed her. It was Ser Humfrey Wagstaff, an unworthy knight whom Brienne should credit for forcing her into her oath and hence should be blamed for her situation at the moment. Brienne should like to break more than his collarbone, this time, but her stays might not permit her from doing so.

Brienne’s eyes met her father’s. He raised his chin, a grim determination etched on his expression, and Brienne knew this was his punishment for her. Next to him, Galladon looked sombre, resigned. She wondered if Victaria had suffered this. She wondered if it had been worse or better for someone beautiful. Brienne was in no hurry to find out. Her hand closed around her knife. It should be enough protection. Enough to fend them off of her. They would call her mad, call her a sow, call her names she’d already heard before, but they would not touch her.

But the impossible happened: her husband stood, and with a voice so clear and unaffected by the wine he’d had, called out: “Already so eager to lay hands on the Lady Lannister, are we?”

The room fell into silence. Somewhere, someone coughed.

“She has defeated more than half of you lot before. Your hands are unworthy, while mine,” he took her hand, the one gripping the knife, and kissed it. The blunt edge of the blade pressed against his cheek, but he didn’t seem to care. “Mine, she accepted in marriage.”

Ser Jaime looked at her, something urgent in his expression, and she at last understood.

He had saved her.

She stood wordlessly, and before the crowd could gather enough wits to answer, she fled, hand in hand with her husband. No one stopped them. Perhaps no one had thought to do so, or perhaps her father and her brother had finally decided to come to her aid—she did not know, did not care to know. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, something like battle-blood singing in her veins though the only blade she carried was the little knife she’d forgotten to leave on her table.

It was no time at all before they reached her chambers, and as soon as they entered Ser Jaime bolted the door behind them. Brienne did not care. Something told her that despite his charades, he would not let harm befall her, not before, and not now that she was his wife.

He took off his doublet and loosened the laces of his undershirt. A faint smattering of golden hair was exposed by the act. Brienne could not look away, transfixed as he kicked off his boots and stretched himself on her sofa.

He raised an eyebrow and said, “May I borrow a pillow, my lady?”

“Oh—yes, of course.” She plucked a pillow from her bed, then hesitated. “Would you be needing a blanket, too?”

“If you’ve a spare,” he said.

She rummaged in her wardrobe and extracted a poorly-stitched quilt. It smelled slightly of dust, but it was clean enough. She brought both the pillow and the quilt to him before she went behind a screen to undress.

Her cloak was pooling around the hem of her skirts when she realised that undressing would be no mean task.

And why would it be? Her gown was laced on the back, composed of many different pieces, and designed to be worn by a highborn lady who had maids. And she had had them, this morning. But not tonight. Tonight, they all expected her husband to undress her.

She closed her eyes, tilting her head back. Breathing. Her blood was still rushing from the exertion earlier, but she needed to be calm.

At last, she gathered enough courage to ask, “My lord, if you could help?”

He could.

There was, somehow, no mockery nor lies, no hollow pleasantry. He was quiet as he deftly unlaced her bodice, as he helped peel off piece after piece. His hands were devoted to the task, and nothing else. His eyes were lowered, as though he was a fearful servant. When she was only in her shift and petticoats, he left, still as wordlessly.

“Thank you,” she called out, weakly. He didn’t answer.

When she reemerged from behind the screen, Ser Jaime was already tucked under the quilt she’d made in her girlhood, his eyes closed, his frame a little too stiff to be truly asleep.

Brienne said nothing to dispel the illusion he’d constructed. She blew all the lights off, slipped under her coverlet, and went to sleep.

* * *

When Brienne woke up, the sofa held only the quilt she had lent Ser Jaime, folded neatly and placed on the pillow. She had slept restlessly, but she must have had _some_ proper sleep, for she did not remember hearing him leave.

Someone had left a tray on her table. Bread, cheese, butter, a small dish of apricot preserve, salt-dried kippers. She had eaten similar breakfasts throughout her life. She was familiar with the way the cook formed the bread, the way he fondly folded a pinch of sugar into each roll like a little secret, the way he would save the best roll for her.

She knew the goatherd, his goats. The kind of cheese they made, the sharp taste and the tender texture that melted in her mouth.

She helped pick the apricots they used for this preserve, every harvest season. She was taught to twist the fruit to pluck it from its stem without bruising the tender flesh.

And the kippers… she was raised half on land, half at sea. She could mend a net better than a shirt, could tell a storm was coming from the smell of the air, could hoist a sail as well as any fisher.

This was her island. Her home.

Brienne felt the pang of homesickness. She’d felt such aches for quite some time now, even though she had not even left the island. Today, however, it was as if something had changed. Something had twisted the pain into wistfulness rather than heartbreak.

Her husband had defended her, last night. Spirited her away from the hungry eyes and cruel hands of the men they called guests. And after, he’d given her space, asking only for a pillow and a blanket. Even as he had helped her undress, his hands had never strayed. There had been no question on whether he would come into her bed, and despite her fears of never begetting an heir to solidify her position as Lady Lannister, Brienne was relieved.

So relieved that she had not questioned him, had not thought overmuch of all that had happened. She had simply gone to sleep.

Was this why he had refused to bed her? Had he somehow known that, even though she would not have resisted, she would not have welcomed him as a lover would?

Had she misjudged him? Perhaps he was not all falseness and dishonour. She thought of it as she savoured her breakfast, and when it was over, she rang for her maids to help her dress.

She chose a tunic cut in a way that it could almost be like the bodice of a gown, except the skirts fell loose and slashed over a pair of breeches, leaving her legs free. She’d commissioned the tunic after her father had complained of her wearing breeches and doublet around guests. Once it was done, Brienne had worn it to welcome Princess Arianne when she’d visited Tarth for a holiday, and she’d remarked on the practicality of such an outfit.

Father stopped his complaints.

Brienne still wore gowns. She did not mind it much—she chafed more against the rules that governed highborn ladies such as her on their manner of dress, rather than against _dresses_ in and of themselves—and she loved Father still. But today she was her husband’s wife. Ser Jaime had not shown distaste the few times he’d seen her in breeches, and he’d complimented her strength with a sword.

Perhaps he’d allow her to commission several such tunics, once they arrived in Lannisport.

Her maids informed her that Ser Jaime and Lady Cersei were having breakfast together in her quarters. Just as well, then. Brienne needed to return the lady’s pendant, and perhaps after that, she could talk with Ser Jaime.

She walked leisurely, though. There was no hurry, and Brienne wanted to drink in the beauty of her childhood home once more. She’d been living in it for the longest time that she’d begun taking it for granted, but here was the nook where Galladon used to hide from her when they’d played the knight and the robber, and here was the portrait of Mother that looked very much like her, and here was the staircase to the spire that overlooked the island.

When Brienne arrived at Lady Cersei’s chamber, she heard her voice from behind the door. It was light, lilting, the way Brienne never sounded. “Did you like my little message yesterday?”

The creaking of a chair against the floor, and then Ser Jaime said, “And what message is that, sweet sister?”

“Don’t be daft. You know just as well as I do what that necklace meant for me. For _us._ ”

Brienne gripped the pendant in her hand so tight, it might leave an imprint of a lion’s head on her palm. A message, Lady Cersei said. The pendant had been a message; not to Brienne, but to Ser Jaime, who had been sure to see it when he’d cloaked her. Brienne leant closer to the door, straining to hear more.

“If you wanted me back—”

“Of course I want you back. You have your island goat, as Father demanded you to, and now I will have my ponce of a husband, and that way we may visit each other whenever we may please. But here I came to this backwater port with a grand solution for our troubles, and all you had eyes on were your giant, brute of a cow—”

“She has a name—”

“Seven take her name! You can’t seriously want such a _creature_?”

Ser Jaime was quiet. Brienne felt the exclamation ringing in her ears, the knowledge a knot impossible to untangle. It sounded—no, but it could not be true. Could it? Such a relationship was base, was wretched. It had brought madness and ruin to the Targaryens.

Lady Cersei’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as any blade. “Have you gone mad from missing my cunt for so long?”

Brienne could not listen anymore. She raised her fist and knocked on the door.

Something clattered and clanged. Ser Jaime swore.

Brienne raised her voice. “Lady Cersei? Ser Jaime? I heard raised voices—are aught amiss?”

Ser Jaime opened the door. Brienne saw a wine goblet on the floor behind him, Dornish red pooling like blood. “Ah, my love. You’re awake. Come in, come in—it’s nothing. A little argument between siblings, you understand how it sometimes is.”

“Yes,” Brienne said, carefully. “Gal—my brother, he sometimes infuriates me too.”

Lady Cersei laughed. Brienne had never feared a sound more. “Brothers!” she exclaimed. “I’ve two, and I sometimes wish I had none.”

Brienne had never wished Galladon to vanish, but she affected a laugh anyway. “Are they really so horrible?”

“Always! But I have a sister, now. I’ve never had one.” Lady Cersei reached for Brienne’s hand, but Brienne opened her fist and revealed the pendant.

“I’ve come to return this,” she said. “Thank you for lending it to me.” She dropped the pendant onto Lady Cersei’s hand and promptly hid her hands behind her back.

“My dear, I had to.” Lady Cersei pulled the chain between her hands and raised it to Brienne’s neck. “It suits you so well. Don’t you agree, brother?”

Ser Jaime made a small, strangled sound, then said, “I think something silver will suit her better. And blue stones, of course. Sapphires.”

It was almost as if he’d declared her unsuited for his house colours. _Her_ house colours, now that they were properly married. Her face burned—in shame, in anger. Must they toy with her so? Was it not enough that they’d used her ill for their own sinful relations?

Brienne felt a tremor starting from her bitten lip, down to her shoulders, her clenched fist. “Ser Jaime,” she said, and even her voice shook.

“My love?”

“Have you trained today?”

He sucked in a breath, then, “Not yet. Shall we?”

Lady Cersei clapped her hands. “I would very much like to watch,” she declared in a tone that brooked no argument.

Brienne gave her the barest hint of a smile, for any wider and she would be grimacing. “Perhaps tomorrow, my lady. I… would like to train with my husband in private.”

“ _Oh._ ” Lady Cersei’s smile was sly, devious. “I understand, of course. Please. Do not allow me to keep you from each other.”

And so Brienne led the way to the armoury, where she fetched her sword. Ser Jaime was already wearing his on his belt. She crossed the courtyard, then, walking with long strides, and when she arrived at the stables Ser Jaime demanded, “Are we not training here?”

She gestured at the handful of workers around the courtyard, already slowing their gait to watch them both, then began saddling her horse. “I’ve no desire for spectators,” she said, keeping her eyes on the leather straps she was fastening.

He watched her, long and hard, then said, “You heard us.”

She closed her eyes, hot tears working their way past her eyelids. Her stomach was an anvil inside the forge of her body, and when she tried to speak it was as if she was choking on smoke. In the end, she merely nodded.

“You must understand,” he said, more a plea than a demand. “I never meant for you to be hurt by it.”

The gentleness of his voice merely stoked the fire. She choked out, “You never meant for me to know.”

Silence, then, “No.”

Brienne swallowed the lump in her throat. Steadied her breathing. And said, as evenly as possible, “Ser, you’ve lied to me, insulted my honour, and conspired with your sister to torment me.” His mouth opened, as though to protest, but she continued, “I demand satisfaction. Get your horse and follow me, or I swear to you the realm will know of your and your sister’s degeneracy.”

He did not point out to her that a traditional duel required a third party to arbitrate. Perhaps he understood, just as well as she did, that they had never been traditional, the two of them. Not since he won her hand by disarming her.

Just as well that the end of their one-day marriage shall be by her sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus the second prompt, "something borrowed", is fulfilled.


	5. His Lady Wife, Brienne of Tarth, His Bane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Jaime followed Brienne to his reckoning, he recalled the events that had brought him to this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some readers have wondered what was going on in Jaime's head. Well, here you go!
> 
> Also, it has been brought into my attention that a reader had expected the incest situation to be "flipped" like the prompt. I'm so sorry to disappoint said reader; there's no Tarthcest in this fic.

_Tarth was beautiful. Jaime had hoped it was not, for his sake. He wanted to loathe the island, the people, the lady he was to wed._

_But Tarth was beautiful, and the famously ugly Lady Brienne had sky-clear eyes that quickly turned clouded with fury, and her sword hand was strong, and her temper flared hot, and perhaps Jaime did not hate her, or the island, as much as he should. He enjoyed the flush of her cheeks, how he could tell that they were of anger rather than bashfulness, how all it took for him to defeat her was a well-placed taunt._

_She flinched from his kiss; he almost felt sorry for her. Not quite, though. He knew she would go back on her word, just as easily as she’d given it. Why keep her oath for an oathbreaker?_

_Jaime walked off the yard expecting Lord Tarth to dislike him, but he hadn’t expected utter disapproval and blatant attempts to call off the match. The fool of a man shouldn’t have allowed the courtship to take place if he was to behave like this, but Jaime said nothing to his unwilling goodfather. He gritted his teeth and smiled and smiled and played the courteous guest as he wondered if his own father would simply accept the humiliation of a broken betrothal._

_But that was an unneeded thought, for his betrothed kept her word. She found him loathsome, Jaime knew as much, but she insisted on the marriage, and when her father insulted her merits, Jaime found himself defending her._

_If the wedding was to happen, if he was to marry her for the wretched scheme, let her at least have his protection—even from her own family, even though she refused to accept him as her ally._

_Even though he continued to enjoy her anger as he mocked her in a hundred little ways._

* * *

Brienne led him out of the castle. It was not the first time he left Evenfall Hall since he’d arrived on the island, but it was the first time he made such a journey with her.

It took him no time at all to see that she loved this island. It was more than the place she’d grown up in. It was her home, and what a home it was! The port town was bustling with trade and merriment, and every now and then she would call out a greeting—to the woman selling fleece, to the men carrying crates of fish, to the little boy who was running some sort of errand. And they called back with great love and respect, and no fear. Not an ounce. Back in Lannisport, the smallfolk cowered before the Lannisters and sneered behind their backs. The taxes were austere, for Casterly Rock would have crumbled under its own self-importance if it had no gold to polish, no grain to fill its stores.

But Tarth flourished. Jaime saw simple people, but not poor people, not hungry people.

He envied her. He dreaded taking her away from all this warmth and bringing her to his unyielding home.

He wondered if, in another life where she spared him, where she never discovered his sin, where he never sinned, she could make Lannisport better.

* * *

_Brienne’s brother was a good man, and more importantly, a sensible one. When she’d pointed out that Galladon Tarth could, in fact, effectively decide on the marriage, Jaime had known he would need to speak to him._

_Even though his beloved betrothed had disagreed—but she needn’t know of this._

_Galladon, it turned out, had the same thought, and had invited Jaime for a drink after supper: just the two of them, man to man. They were of an age, Galladon said, and brothers soon. Jaime agreed on the first statement and took the second as a good sign._

_Playing a generous host, Galladon poured for Jaime and toasted him before he asked, “Do you truly love my sister?”_

_Jaime considered a lie, but there was a shrewdness in Galladon’s eyes, even behind his smile, so he said, “No.”_

_“But you pretend to.”_

_Jaime felt his brow twitch, his mouth curling, his tongue preparing to lash. Galladon Tarth might be more sensible than most men, but that did not make him quick-witted. Still, Galladon was to be the one to convince old Selwyn to allow the wedding, so Jaime reined in his temper and said, carefully, “To everyone else, yes. There is plenty to mock between her and me, you understand. I say this not to insult her—I think she’s a good, honourable sort—but merely to illuminate you of the kind of match we make. She already seems ready to tear my head off my shoulders; if I act a touch more indifferent, they will eat us alive.”_

_“They?”_

_“Why, the realm, my Lord. You forget I am to be Lord Paramount, and she my lady wife. Even if we were any less strange, the realm would already watch us on account of our positions.” Jaime leaned forward. “I do not love the Lady Brienne, and though I enjoy poking her temper, I respect her a great deal and vow to treat her fairly.”_

_Galladon did not point out that he had no cause to believe a vow from an oathbreaker. He didn’t need to. At long last, he sighed a beleaguered resigned sound. “I suppose that’s as good as I can expect for my dear sister,” he said, and then they spoke of other, less important things before Jaime begged to retire._

_When he reached his quarters, he found a sealed letter on the table._

> _Dearest Brother,_
> 
> _I heard you’ve tamed the sow. I would congratulate you, but I’m sure it was no great accomplishment for you. I’m sorry it has to come to this, my love, but I’ve a brilliant scheme to allow us to be together, at last. I’ve persuaded Renly Baratheon to wed me. He’s as much a pillow-biter as everyone said, but at least he has sense. He won’t care if I’m to carry your babe._
> 
> _I’ve missed you. Renly and I will come to your wedding; he told me your bride once loved him. I wonder, will his attachment to me sadden her? If so, at least the drab island has something to entertain me during my stay._
> 
> _C._

* * *

“Where are we going?” Jaime asked. They were on a sloping path, steep and rocky, winding up a hill that could nearly be a mountain, but not quite.

“Shut up,” Brienne said.

Such harshness he hadn’t expected from her. He laughed, despite riding to his own doom. “If you’re to hide my body, you could simply toss it into the sea,” he said.

She pulled on the reins and turned to face him. “I will not kill you,” she said, and he believed her. He should not believe her. She should not spare him. She said, “I’m no murderer,” and he thought she should try becoming one.

He ignored the maudlin thoughts and continued his musing instead. “Or perhaps you’d much rather bury me somewhere in the woods, rather than risk having my body wash ashore?” To his pleasure, the flush returned to her face. He so adored the pinkness of it. “My love, do you blush at the thought of having to manhandle my body?”

She huffed and turned her horse back to the uphill path. “You’re a sick, wretched man.”

He spurred his horse to catch up with her. “You needn’t flatter me, love, we’re already married!”

* * *

_There was a long moment when Jaime thought he would not see her walk into the Sept. Renly had ducked out. Murmurs had begun to spread among the guests, and Jaime did not bother trying to listen. He could guess what was said._

_Renly stumbled back in, taking his place next to Cersei, leaning in to whisper something in her ear. She smiled, thin, satisfied, and Jaime felt unease stirring in him. Had his sister said something to Brienne? But no, here she walked in with her cock of a father, and Jaime thought he might perish at the sight of her._

_She looked lovely in blue. Jaime had known this, of course. She’d worn blue before. He’d even attempted to endear himself to her by wearing her colour. But today she wore a gown made of a fabric that could be cut from the sky itself and her figure stood tall and broad like a pillar of storm clouds and he felt something like grief, or loss. All this strength, honour, loveliness—eyes that could fell the most vicious of men—would be wasted on him._

_She knew it, too. Still, she walked in, defying all sense, defying her own father. And all because she’d made an oath._

_It was that oath that made her shrug off her own house colours, almost without thought, before accepting the Lannister cloak on her shoulders. Jaime would have laughed at the look on old Selwyn’s face, but it was then that he noticed the pendant._

_The pendant he had commissioned for Cersei, with the stipend he’d earned when he’d taken his place in the Kingsguard. The pendant that had been a promise. He’d placed it around her neck and they’d both pretended it was a cloak._

_Then Father had sent Cersei back to Casterly Rock, separating them once more—but Cersei had brought the pendant with her._

_And now, it hung from Brienne’s neck. It was not terribly hard to fathom what Cersei had meant by it. His sister had never been as clever as she thought she was._

_When Jaime kissed his bride, he felt the daggers of his sister’s eyes on him. Worse, he felt it on his wife. His poor wife, his marvellous wife—what had he thrown her into?_

* * *

“Draw your sword,” his lady wife said.

“Why?” They were at a small, grassy clearing, atop the little pine mountain they’d spent the last hour climbing. The air was thinner here, though not by much. The sun was bright, but not scorching, not yet, and there was a slight breeze that smelled rather like wildflowers. It was a lovely place for an execution. “I’d much rather kneel and make your work easier.”

“I will not kill you,” she said again.

“Why not? I’m certainly guilty of all the crimes you charged me with. I’ve lied to you, yes, and insulted your honour. I never meant to torment you, but Cersei did, and I’m very much accustomed to taking the blame for my sister’s actions.”

“You cannot possibly expect me to believe that,” she said, snorting in a most unladylike way. “Draw your sword, Ser.”

He did. Not because he wanted to fight her, but because she’d demanded satisfaction—and he was desperate to give her some, bewildering as it was that she demanded a duel without intending to kill. “As you’ve said yourself, I never meant for you to know.”

She drew her own sword. Her stance was immaculate, her legs thick as logs. It would take a strong man to knock her on her back. She said, “And you think ignorance was not the same as torment?”

He laughed. “My love—”

“Don’t call me that—”

“—the pain lies in the knowing. It always has. Would we be here if you hadn’t overheard us?”

He knew he’d won the argument, then, because she charged at him with the most furiously red face he’d ever seen on her. And yet, it gave him no pleasure to anger her, not this time, not like this. He raised his own blade to parry, the movement mechanical and ingrained in him. She wanted him to fight back, he knew that much. His surrender would be no victory.

So he did not surrender. He fought back, and this time he didn’t care to make his movements clean. She was well-trained. He’d said so to her, the first time they crossed swords. She could take the full brunt of his power, could deflect enough so his swings merely grazed rather than cut.

And away from curious eyes, he needn’t play the chivalrous knight, the gentle suitor. Away from curious eyes, he gave as much as she demanded, all dirty tricks and careless swings—

Or perhaps he was sloppy because he was discombobulated, because he was wedded, because his wife had discovered his sin, because now he had to fight her, because her hair was now damp, sticking to her face, and droplets of sweat coated her lashes just so that they caught the near-midday sun, and her eyes were bright and brilliant and blue and still so, so, intensely focused on the task at hand: cutting him down like the log of rotten wood he was—but she’d demanded satisfaction, and much as Jaime was distracted, he was also better trained, better tested, so he still had not fallen yet, parrying and dodging and pushing forward, kicking some dirt into her face, narrowly avoiding a pommel to the jaw—that would bruise, later, but now it was nothing—admiring the way her sleeves pulled against her shoulders with each movement, and too late, too late he leapt backwards—his sword knocked off his hand, his tunic bunched in her fist, her blade against his throat, and they fell, and he bore the weight of her with a light laugh, as though she had freed him.

Maybe she had.

* * *

_They ran to her chambers—his chambers, too, before they both departed to Lannisport. She still had her knife in her fist. He barred the door behind them._

_And though he felt so alive, so aware of the blood rushing in his veins and how much he wished to touch her, hold her, ask her if she was all right—though he wanted nothing else but to speak plainly to his wife and warn her of his sister’s treacherous nature—he merely prepared himself to sleep on her sofa. He could feel her eyes on him, watching him undress, and against all reason, he found his breeches tightening._

_When he asked for a pillow, she gave him a blanket, too. Such kindness, such consideration. Such waste, that she was now bound to him._

_The quilt had crooked stitches and was a little small, and Jaime could imagine her, young and determined as she attacked the fabric with her needle. He wondered if she still sewed, or if she had stopped. If she had become better._

_She interrupted his musing by asking him to help her undress._

_For a moment, Jaime thought she would stubbornly demand a consummation, a fulfilment of their marital duties—but her voice was timid and he recalled the way her hand had clenched the knife as though it could have protected her from all the cruel men in the world._

_No, his wife would not think of a bedding. Some part of him was relieved. A different part, one he studiously ignored, felt a pang of disappointment. Still, Jaime was no Aerys. No amount of duty or want could ever make him force himself on her._

_Of course, when he’d said as much to her before, she’d taken it as yet another insult. He had mocked her too many times, had etched his character in her mind, for her to take his refusal as anything else._

_Jaime shook his head. He was likely to drive himself mad if he cared overmuch about the court of his wife’s opinion. He stood from the sofa and went to help his wife undress, and if she noticed his averted eyes and his trembling hands—oh gods, the laces went on endlessly down her back, and with each pull, a little more of her figure was revealed, barely veiled by her gauzy shift—she said nothing._

_Jaime didn’t sleep that night. He tossed and turned and when he could no longer pretend, he left to see his sister._

* * *

Jaime looked up at Brienne, and she was a revelation. She glared at him as though he had just spit in her eye.

“Must you look so cross?” he asked. “You’ve won, my l—”

Her sword pressed into his skin. “Don’t call me that.”

Jaime laughed again. Above them, the sun blinded him, so he turned his eyes to watch the cool shadow of her face. Her nose somehow seemed more prominent, jutting and jagged and so close to his own that he could feel the huffs of her breath. He followed each warm, uneven exhalation, entranced and endangered by her, a moth drawn to her fire. “I’ve called you that so many times just to anger you, it is true. However—much to my own surprise, and I am sure yours, too—I rather mean it, this time.”

She stilled. Her eyes were dark and wide and almost terrified. She pressed her blade a little harder against his neck. “You lie.”

“You’ve seen me lie often enough to know what it looks like.” There were wisps of hair falling over her eyes, and he found himself reaching up. She flinched. He dropped his hand. “You’ve won,” he repeated. “Name your prize.”

“The truth,” she demanded. “All of it.”

“The truth,” he echoed. What a terrible boon to ask! He thought of the entirety of his entwinement with Cersei, of his father demanding him to court Brienne, of his slowly growing regard for her despite his best efforts to make an enemy out of her. He thought of the many times he’d given himself away, only to have her take his words as yet another insult. And he thought of mere moments ago: when she’d finally conquered him, when he knew. He _knew_. And Jaime thought that his wife might not believe him, still, even if he told her all of that and more.

So, Jaime reached up to cup the nape of Brienne’s neck, pulling her down. Strained against the sword she still had against his throat. And, like a moth finally surrendering to certain death by fire, he kissed her.

Later, he would find a thin line of blood where her sword cut into his skin. Now, however, he felt only her involuntary gasp, a quick suck of breath that only pulled him closer to her, and the way her hand tightened around the fabric of his tunic, not pulling or pushing, merely _there_. Her knuckles were against his sternum and he wondered if she could feel the thumping of his heart—quick and desperate as though it knew it would not have much time left to beat.

She smelled of ambergris and wildflowers, yet tasted like the dirt he’d kicked into her face. He could drink her in forever. Could spend ten lifetimes discovering all her contradictions.

But it should end, now—he had given her the truth and he was prepared for her punishment for his presumption, his _gall_ to even mar her lips with his own—except then the sword against his neck lolled and slid away, and then her hand was in his hair, tugging him closer to her, and her mouth opened in an exhale and he lost any will to let her go.

So he didn’t. He pulled her tighter against him, their bodies flush against each other, and when her middle pressed against his hard cock he was ready to pull away but she grunted into his mouth and _ground_ against him.

He saw stars—no, those were just her eyes, intent and focused as though this was yet another bout—and he thought if she was fool enough to keep him, he might truly get to spend his days being surprised by his wife, over and over again until she was sick of him.

With a strength he didn’t know he possessed, he reached up and flipped her under him. For this, she rewarded him with a scowl and her hand tugging on the laces of his breeches. Another surprise. Or perhaps not. She was too honourable to be anything but a maiden, but it shouldn’t mean she was naive. Someone would have taught her the rudimentary knowledge of the act.

He wondered, as he watched her unlace his breeches with nimble fingers, how much she knew. If she had pleased herself before.

He studied her face, the stubborn line of her jaw, and just as his cock was freed he saw her biting her lip. She touched him, careful, then gripped it so tightly and suddenly that he yelped. She immediately let go—that was almost worse, the sudden loss of her touch.

“Your hand,” he said, extending his own. When she took it, he guided her back to his cock and squeezed her fist around it, showing her the right pressure, groaning when she began to move her strokes, up and down, and then a swipe over the head—clumsy, but enough to make him gasp again.

Moisture beaded on the tip. She smeared it on her palm, and her next stroke slid smoother. Her hands were callused, but not like his. Not scarred and rough from making a living from the sword. Merely signs of training, and even then, not enough training.

Jaime didn’t care for the calluses, but it seemed a waste, to let her talent stay in the courtyard.

He was pondering if perhaps it was time for his house to do as Mormonts and let its women fight alongside men when she shoved him to the ground, and—before he could feel anything but startled—she closed her mouth over his cock. Her mouth was hot and wet and he heard himself swearing, felt his hips bucking, and as he looked down to her she was _grinning_ around him.

“How—” he began, but then she swirled her tongue around his shaft and his question turned into a sound he hadn’t known he could make.

She was not practised. Her movements lacked neither the finesse nor rhythm of more experienced women, yet she was persistent and attentive to his reactions. A quick study. After a while, she withdrew with an exhausted groan, and though he sorely missed her touch, he was more relieved that he did not unman himself in her mouth. He’d already lost to her once.

Lady Brienne, his wife, the most remarkable woman he’d ever met, massaged her jaw before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ve got maids,” she said, her face burning red—not anger, this time—though her lips curved in a smirk. “They like to talk.”

Jaime gaped.

“I’ve dismissed them as frivolous, and my septa said it was unlikely for my husband to want me unless I blow all the lights off and lie very, very still, but she’s wrong. Isn’t she?” Her gaze was hard and piercing and so terribly blue. She continued, quieter this time, “For a moment, when you refused to bed me, I had thought… but no. You want me, Ser.” There was something in her tone that nearly sounded like a question. As though she could not quite believe him, yet, as though his cock was not standing hard between them.

With a dry mouth, he managed to croak, “I do.” He added, “Your septa is an idiot.”

“I think she hates me,” she says. “And she hates that when we grew wealthy, I obtained kinder companions.”

“And these kinder companions,” he said, “what else have they talked about?”

“That when they are not too lazy, men have their own tricks, too.” She did not need to ask him if he was to merely lie on his back—the challenge was in her tone, in her eyes.

Well, he never claimed to be beyond taunting.

He took off his tunic and the undershirt beneath, bundling it up into something close to a pillow, all the while feeling her eyes on him. He was a beautiful man; he knew it better than most other truths, yet her appreciation for him still thrilled him. “Lie down,” he said, setting the bundled clothes on the ground. When she arched her brow, he added, “If it pleases my lady.”

“Will it?” she asked—how he loved her and the lash of her tongue, in more ways than one—but she obeyed, stretching herself on the ground and resting her head on the bundle. She seemed unsure of what to do with her arms, resting them on her sides at first before crossing them in front of her chest.

It was lucky that he knew exactly what to do with them: he took her hands, kissing the knuckles of each of them before pinning them over her head with one hand as his other one made quick work of her buttons.

She lied very, very still, her eyes flitting between his face and her buttons as they were undone, one after another to reveal her shift—thin as gossamer and torn nearly as easily—and then, at last, her bare breasts.

He kissed her, quick, merely to remind himself of how she tasted before he lowered his lips to her jaw, her neck, her clavicles, and then latching on one soft, pink nipple and sucking until it pebbled against his tongue.

She’d made no sound, and when he looked up, she had liberated her right hand and bit it—a crude and painful muzzle. Gently, he reached up to free her hand, kissing the bite mark. “My love,” he said, and this time she didn’t stop him, merely watching him with lust-glazed eyes, “Did you not choose this place so we would be away from eyes and ears?”

And then he pressed her fingers against the apex of her legs and she made a small, keening sound that made him even harder, if at all possible. He unlaced her breeches enough to slip his hand under her smallclothes, finding moisture and yet another sound from her.

And from there, it was a game, a lesson, on how he could make her blush even more than any insult could, on the number of noises she could make, on how tight her cunt felt around his finger, and how much tighter after the second finger, on how fast he needed to go until her legs closed behind his hips and her eyes rolled back and a loud, unrestrained moan escaped her, her cunt wet and pulsing around his fingers.

When her legs dropped limp and her breathing began to even out, he pulled his fingers out—her whimper of protest sounded so sweet to his ears—and brought the juice-soaked hand to his own cock, pumping it a few times. It felt better than any other time he’d pleased himself, and yet so far from enough. No matter. Soon, he was ready, and so was she, having kicked her own breeches off while he was busy with his cock, and she spread her legs wide and inviting, all coarse, blond hair and dark glistening cunt, and when he slid inside of her they both shuddered at how _right_ it felt. He stopped—he was not halfway in, but she was a maiden still despite his fingers—and when her eyes opened in question, or perhaps demand, he pushed further inside.

And then he rocked his hips, and it wasn’t long before she, too, moved with him, meeting and separating and meeting again, over and over. He kissed her mouth and then he pressed his head to her shoulder; she put one hand in his hair and another to the point of their joining. Against sense, he wished for this moment to never end, with the sun warming their bed of grass and no one else to hear them fuck, to hear her moan, to hear him murmur her name and _my love, my love, my sweet love…_

Still, wishes were wind. Their coupling ended as suddenly as it had begun, his seed spurting quick and hot into her. A momentary fear seized him at how glorious yet how wrong it felt, but soon he realised that he was allowed to spill in his wife. It was proper. Expected, even.

He’d only had his sister a handful of times, in between Father’s attempts to separate them, but each and every time, they had remembered to have him spill outside. He recalled the fear of being caught, of being exposed, or his sister touching his face gently and asking him if he would kill anyone who tried to punish them—punish her—should their love ever be known.

His sister, who never was good at sharing. What manner of cruelty would be her punishment?

The reminder was a cold anchor in his stomach. Jaime studied Brienne’s face, slack and half-asleep, drunk with pleasure. She hadn’t noticed his plight, and he took his chance. He pulled out of her. Kissed her middle, then lower and lower, until he was cleaning her up with his mouth and tongue and she became lost once more and the sounds she made drowned any other thought he might have.

Eventually, they would have to return to Evenfall Hall. They would talk, long and heavy, on the nature of their marriage. They might even talk of the future if Brienne still wanted him after Cersei exacted her revenge. But not now.

Not yet.


	6. The Lover, The Beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A resolution and a conclusion.

In the end, it was the rumblings of a storm that put an end to their repose. Brienne levered herself up on her elbows and looked to the sky, where grey clouds hung as low and heavy as wool.

“How long?” Ser Jaime asked, still on his side, still watching her. She couldn’t quite believe his hunger for her, even after he’d proven it several times over. There was a sweet ache between her legs and stickiness on her thighs, and she was sure her hair was dyed green like a Manderly’s.

“An hour,” she answered. “Maybe less. We should return to the castle, Ser.”

“I think we’ve gone past such formalities,” he said. “Call me Jaime.”

“Jaime,” she said, testing the name in her mouth. It was not unpleasant. “We should get dressed.” She extracted the crumpled, dirtied tunic that was her pillow and offered it to him.

“Must we?” he said, mockingly plaintive. “I haven’t finished counting your freckles.”

“You can continue that later,” she said, shaking the tunic before his nose.

He grinned.

Brienne realised the trap she’d just walked into, but she refused to be cowed despite the creeping blush that warmed her face. Wordlessly, she shook the tunic again and thanked the Seven when he finally took it.

“I’ll take that as a promise, Brienne,” he said as he pulled it on, but there was something heavy in the way he smiled, not unlike the overcast summer sky above them. Before she could ask, he explained, “I’ve to reckon with my sister one last time before that.”

The reminder of what had brought them here—and how long ago it felt, though it had happened only this morning—landed as surprisingly and as painfully as the blow after a feint. For a brief moment, Brienne had forgotten that her husband—Jaime, he’d told her to call him Jaime—was in fact entangled with his own sister, and had only married Brienne as a—what? A scheme to evade notice? An attempt to claim her wealth? A lark?

“Brienne,” he said gently as though soothing a wild animal, “I said, _one last time._ ”

She looked up. Searched his face and found nothing but grim sincerity.

“I’ve no intention of returning to her bed. I will not apologise for having loved her, or for still loving her, a little. But I will not return to her. If—if you’ll still have me, after that, I will be grateful, but if you wish for an annulment, I will not stand in your way.”

She swallowed a lump in her throat and steadied her breath. His expression was so open and honest, it hurt her to look at him. So, she averted her gaze and began dressing. She could feel him looking at her, still, and she eventually said, “And shall I lie and tell everyone that we’d never consummated our marriage?”

“Yes,” he said with sheer desperation as if he was truly begging her to discard him, as if he wanted her to turn him away.

“If you love me even a little bit—”

“I do—”

“—then you’d know I’d rather be wedded to a man without honour than to discard my own,” she said.

He frowned. “Are you sure we have no time for one more bout?” he asked, yet his grin indicated something much more lascivious than swordplay.

Against all odds, she was tempted. She wanted him, and—odd as it still was to her—he wanted her, perhaps even more. Overhead, the sky rumbled, as if daring her to throw caution to its winds. What was a little rain and mud, compared to the claws of Cersei Lannister?

And yet.

“One last time, you said.”

Jaime nodded. He had finished dressing. Even in his dishevelled, dirt-stained tunic, with a line of blood across his throat and a blooming bruise on his jaw, he looked beautiful, well-tumbled rather than haggard. Yet his brow was stern, his mouth unsmiling. “Then I’ll be yours, without reservation.”

Brienne reached her hand out, desperate for something. Contact. Reassurance. He took it between his own calloused palms before kissing her knuckles as he had done after their first bout. She did not flinch.

* * *

“This morning, I meant to put an end to Cersei’s games.”

Brienne did not answer, but she slowed her horse.

Jaime brought his mount closer to her and lowered his voice. “The last time I saw her was more than two years ago, and before that, seven years ago when she arrived at King’s Landing. We’d only had a few days before I was sent back to the Rock. Our father always kept us as far away as possible from each other, out of some keen suspicion, though I don’t think he knows the full extent of our relationship.” His hand clenched-loosened-clenched again around the reins in his lap. “It was he who sent me here. Not my sister. But she did come up with the scheme with Renly, though she’d given me no say on the matter.”

“You said you would not apologise for loving her,” Brienne said.

“No, but you asked for the truth—and unfortunately, I find a need to explain myself to you.”

“A misfortune indeed,” she said wryly. “Well, you needn’t. I trust you when you said you would honour our marriage. I ask for no more.”

“But I wish to give you more. I wish to give you your boon. You’ve defeated me—you’ve won me—will you accept me? All of me, all my truths and my sins?” There was a desperation in his voice, a fear of something Brienne could not fathom. Earlier on the clearing, he’d been certain. _One last time,_ he’d said. Now, he spoke with none of the solidity that he’d possessed.

She’d told him that she would not discard her honour in order to discard him, but it was not the same, was it? He’d declared his love for her, promised to be faithful to her, yet she’d barely expressed herself to him.

Brienne halted her horse; Jaime followed suit. She turned to him, leaned over to hold his head between her palms. “I will not be your confessor. I’ve no power to absolve you,” she said. “What I am, Jaime, is your wife. I will accept you, I will listen to you, I will know you—but I cannot do that before you are freed of her.” She let him go. “Now come. A storm is coming.”

* * *

They found Cersei Lannister lounging in her guest chambers, holding court for Brienne’s maids.

“Sister,” Jaime said. “Enjoying your stay here, I see.”

“Brother!” Cersei greeted with a beaming smile. She took in the dishevelled state of Jaime’s clothes, the bruise on his jaw and the wound across his neck before her smile froze on her face, rendering her the look of a badly-hewn statue. She turned to Brienne, her equally rumpled attire, her kiss-marked throat. “Goodsister. I see you’ve been busy, both of you.”

The maids tittered. “Good training, Milady?” asked a particularly brazen one.

Jaime smirked at them. “Oh, yes. Did any of you know how limber my wife is? I didn’t, until today.”

Brienne pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her eyes shut. The embarrassment was nothing compared to the knowledge that she had chosen to stay with this infuriating man for the rest of her life. She said, “My husband and I would like to speak with Lady Cersei in private.”

The girls scurried out, curtseying and bowing before closing the heavy door behind them.

“I was merely sharing the good news with them,” Cersei said. “Have you heard—no, of course, you haven’t. You’ve been… outside.” She stood from her sofa, slim and elegant and indolent as a sunbathing lion. “Lord Renly and I are engaged.”

“Engaged?” Jaime asked. His voice was hollow, disbelieving. “Did Father write back, then?”

“No, not yet,” she said. “Seeing your marital bliss simply reminded me that if I’m to achieve it, I shouldn’t wait for something as meaningless as Father’s approval.” She lifted a crystal goblet, the Arbor Red inside swirling like unspilled blood. “After you left, I _begged_ Renly to take me as his betrothed. We’re kindred spirits, he and I. I understand his nature, even the parts that he would not reveal to others.” She giggled, light and girlish and pretty. “And now we have an understanding.”

“An understanding,” Brienne said, hollowly. She might no longer be enamoured by her vain lord, but she was loyal to him, still. He was Lord of Storm’s End. Her liege. And Cersei Lannister had threatened him to save herself; she had admitted as much. “Does he comprehend your nature as you do his, then?” Brienne asked, her jaw clenched so she would not yell.

“Sister!” Cersei exclaimed. “How vulgar your thoughts are. We women needn’t be understood by our husbands. We merely need to be what they require of us. Renly requires heirs for Storm’s End.” She turned to look at Jaime. “I will provide him with such.”

“My felicitations to you both,” Jaime forced out. His smile was the same one he used to wear in front of Brienne in the early days of their betrothal, but this time he aimed it at his own sister. It fooled no one. Cersei’s face flushed wine-red, her mouth twisted into a sneer. He continued, “I’ve no doubt you would make a grand Lady of Storm’s End.”

“I thank you,” she said. “We’re to wed in Storm’s End, as soon as Father can come. You’ll attend, yes?”

Jaime took Brienne’s hand and tugged her closer. “We shall see,” he said, though he didn’t look too eager at the prospect. As though it was an afterthought, he added, “It might not be required of me, but I understand my own wife very well.”

“Do you?” Cersei asked. She seemed ready to hurl the goblet at them.

“Indeed. My love is all I could ever require of a wife. I cannot imagine wanting anything else.” He smiled at Brienne, soft and indulgent, and she could feel heat unfurl in her chest, creeping through her body until she was warm all over.

The wine in Cersei’s goblet sloshed a little as the hand that held it trembled. “Take care, sister. He’s not so steadfast as he makes himself to be—ah, but I’m sure you know that already, don’t you?”

Jaime opened his mouth, but Brienne had had enough. He had said his piece; they needn’t stay for Cersei’s retaliation. “My congratulations on your betrothal, Lady Cersei,” Brienne said. “I hope you and Lord Renly find happiness in each other.”

They left, and as soon as the door slammed shut behind them, Jaime leaned in and said, “You’re a terrible liar.”

She pulled away, scrunching her nose. “And you smell like the stables. Come, I’ll call for a bath.”

He complained about her absolutely unjust statement, accused her of smelling like manure, demanded that she treat him gently after having wounded him so grievously, and in the end, it took her entering his tub to silence his protests.

They missed dinner, and later, supper. Jaime confirmed that Brienne had entirely too many freckles to count in one night, and demanded that she stay with him until he’d finished his calculations. She obsequiously agreed. They called for a tray and ate bread and five kinds of cheese in the middle of the night, half-dressed. She asked for more truths: his knighting, his childhood, his father and his sister and his brother. The kingslaying.

He obliged, each story flowing from him like water from a broken dam, and in the end, she understood: her husband was just as foolishly honourable as she was.

* * *

When it was time for Brienne to leave to Casterly Rock with her new husband, her family rode with them to the harbour. It was a small party: only Father, Galladon, and Victaria. Lady Cersei, though by law was now her family, had gone to Storm’s End with her betrothed on _urgent_ business. Septa Roelle had been sent back to King’s Landing, now that she had no more unmarried young women to terrorise. None of Brienne’s maids chose to follow her to Casterly Rock—Tarth was by far more exciting than poor Lannisport.

To Brienne’s surprise, her father insisted on loading her trunks himself. “Let me be your Father one last time, at least,” he said before lifting the biggest of them one-armed and walking up the plank with nary a grunt.

Against all her desire to be stiff-lipped and dry-eyed today, Brienne felt the beginnings of tears sting her eyes. She blinked quickly, her father’s broad back blurring into the bright clear sky. Jaime had his arm looped around her waist; when Brienne scooted closer and leaned a little into his touch, he turned and kissed her jaw lightly.

“Do you think he’ll ever forgive me for stealing his daughter?” Jaime asked.

Brienne made a little wet chuckle. “Only after he forgives me for allowing myself to be stolen.”

“Father’s not angry at you both,” Galladon said, startling Brienne out of her husband’s embrace. He pretended not to notice, instead continuing, “He’s a little regretful of his silly scheme, and he worries for you. Not that he has any cause to worry. You’ll treat my sister well, won’t you, Ser?”

“And if I don’t, Galladon of Tarth? Will you cross the land to kick my dead body after she kills me herself?”

Brienne had her mouth half-open to refute her husband—she would _not_ kill him, despite all his loud claims—but closed it again when her brother chuckled.

“A fair point,” he said. “And you, Brienne, are you truly all right with this man as your husband?” He put a hand over his mouth, but barely lowered his voice. “It isn’t too late to throw him off the pier. Father would approve and the whole island would see nothing.”

“Galladon!” Victaria chided, though she was smothering her own giggles. “Don’t be so awful to your our goodbrother.” She embraced Brienne, standing on her tiptoes so she could kiss her cheek. “Be happy, sister. I’ll be sure to visit as soon as the Maester allows me to.”

Brienne had only known Victaria for a few moons, yet she felt herself choking on a lump in her throat. “I would love that,” Brienne said. “Very much.”

“I’ll visit, too,” Father said, suddenly. He drew Brienne into his arms, embracing her in a way he’d rarely done since she was a little girl. “My little girl, now a lady. I should love to see what you make of old Casterly Rock.”

Brienne lost her composure, then. She cried and she cried and her father held her, strong and steady, and when the tears subsided and only little hiccups remained, he let her go, right into Jaime’s arms.

They walked two steps towards the gangplank before they were interrupted by one more round of embraces and kisses. In the end, however, Brienne made it on the deck, Jaime next to her, and as the ship undocked and the figures on the pier grew smaller and smaller, he didn’t let her hand go.

“I am sorry to part you from such a home,” he said.

“I long to return already,” she answered, “but Jaime… I am a daughter. Daughters are always meant to leave.”

“Such few, sad things are meant for daughters,” he said. He turned to her. “We will return. Upon my word, Brienne, this is not the last you’ll see of your childhood home.”

Jaime seemed so stern, in that instant. Brienne saw it, the shining knight he’d wanted to become. He’d long discarded that dream, but she thought he was the picture of it, with his hair gleaming gold and eyes bright as emeralds. It was like this, that he promised to bring her back, to never rob her of her history, her heritage. It was like this, that once more she felt how deeply and loyally he loved her.

And she loved him too, more than she’d ever hated the facade he’d presented to her.

She took his hand, kissed the knuckles as he’d done to her own hand many times. “I’ll hold you to your word,” she said. “After all, it is a matter of honour.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think in the comments.


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